


Ellie's Story

by VerucaSol



Category: DayZ
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-05 01:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18355772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerucaSol/pseuds/VerucaSol
Summary: In a world ravished by an aggressive form of rabies, a girl survives in a strange land with only her wits, and her friends.





	1. Ellie's Story

A Survivors Story Chapter 1  
DayZ: A Survivor Story

Chapter 1  
Ellie's Story

 

I start to remember. It has been days since I have had time to really remember anything. It started, two weeks ago, with a few stories on the radio and television. At that time, I was far too busy to pay attention. I was going to Paris, foreign exchange student paradise. I worked my whole short life to get here, to Paris. Nothing was going to screw this up for me.

Then the news reports became more than sporadic, they became so very common. Ordinary people, suddenly dropping dead, then coming back, biting and eating people. The zombie plague had become real. Weaponized rabies had been spread in the public water supply, or by air, nobody knows anymore. How, why, who... at this point it makes no difference. In two weeks, the world went from sane, to hell.

But that story, of how it happened, and how nobody could stop what was coming, is a story for another day. Instead, I am more concerned with my present situation. That situation, is very bad indeed. When Paris was being evacuated, through Hamburg, eventually to the island of Ithaca, Greece, I had pretty much given up on feeling in control of my life. Paris and Hamburg were two of the last human safe zones. Then news spread, that Ithaca was zombie free. A lottery was taken, the few of us lucky enough to get picked, were to fly down to Ithaca, to become the last survivors of the human race.

The helicopter is huge. This is what strikes me first, as I board it. The huge tanks on what look like long fat short little wings, look like they hold enough fuel, I guess, to fly around the world, but I am sure it is just my ignorance. Still, they hurry us aboard, Twenty of us, picked at random, or so they claim. I notice however, nobody “randomly picked” is older than their twenties, and most are female too. I really have nothing to say about this, so I say nothing. I am just glad to be leaving the UN Base, alive.

As the helicopter lifts off, I get my first look outside the tall metal gates. The pile of zombies is terrifying. They tear at each other to get to the gates and walls. Their screams and moans are audible even at this altitude. The noise of the engines on the helicopter can not drown out the horrific squeals. I cover my ears, putting my ear buds in and turning up my music. I am afraid to look any longer, so I turn away as the guns once again fire from the top of the guard towers, ripping into the hoards. They are running low on ammunition, I overheard soldiers say. They estimate that the base will fall in less than a week. Until then, the soldiers will continue to try to keep the majority of the hoards back. Still, the weight of the masses pressing against the walls and gates will eventually bring them down. There is no stopping it.

The flight is peaceful, once aloft. The tension seems to ease considerably. Even the UN Soldiers guarding us take time to sit down and close their eyes for a few minutes each. Maybe I am wrong to feel safe. Still, I do. We are away from that hell. We have left the ragged fortification. I try to put the memory of the smell out of my mind. With no running water, the waste from the few thousand survivors is a problem initially, and becomes critical the longer we are trapped there, but the alternative is to leave the relative security of the compound, into the wasteland that has become Europe.

The flight remains peaceful for quite a while. I switch off my music and close my eyes trying to nap. It has been so long since I felt safe enough to allow myself to really sleep. That makes it all too easy now. I close my eyes, head resting on the top of the net seating. I sleep, visions of the undead as they chased us down streets, of the screams, the pools of blood from victims, of the shooting from random places, all invade my troubled rest. The dreams obfuscate the reality happening at the moment, to the helicopter. I am reliving the previous day, being pushed and jostled around by larger people, gun fire going off, the alarms blasting. I sleep through the fact that the helicopter is being shot down. I only wake up when we start to fall.

The pilot counter-rotates the helicopter as best as he can, but we still hit the ground hard. Though we are, most all, strapped into our seats, the soldiers are not so lucky, manning their guns to the end. Returning fire as best as they can, they are thrown around by the impact with the first mound of dirt.

We spin, rolling, tumbling along like a mad carnival ride gone horribly wrong. I hear screaming, a high pitched yell of terror and realize it is my own. Then we are sliding. I catch a glimpse out the now shattered side window, of a building. It is relentlessly approaching. I know we can not possibly stop, and the closing speed is going to be lethal. I close my eyes, thinking, I do not want to see it come. I am about to die, and I do not want to know. And then, I am numb.

Flashes of light assail my vision. Intermittent noises, a popping, a groan and some metal bending alert me to consciousness. Slowly, like the brightness being turned up from zero to full eleven, the world starts to come into focus. Briefly, my mind sorts itself. What happened, who am I, where is this place?

It comes back to me in a rush. I am nauseous and expel the meager serving of rice and beans I had eaten prior to our leaving Hamburg. I expect it to drop, slovenly, onto my lap, instead it appears to fly across the helicopter and impact with a sickening splatter, on one of the dead soldiers, who is miraculously, floating in mid air. I blink a few times, holding my head. I am hanging from my harness.

We are atilt, the fuselage is askew at an angle. Releasing the harness proves to be no easy task. I fumble, uselessly, with the catch for what seems eternity. I have neither a clear vision of this task, nor do I have experience at it. I hang helplessly in the harness, blood starting to pool in my limp legs and arms. I am dizzy, both from the impact and from the lack of circulation in my brain.

I feel a strong hand pull my head back. I groan, too weakened to resist. I open my eyes, seeing one of the soldiers looking back at me. He looks to be in very bad condition. Still, with much exertion, we manage to extricate my bruised body from the harness. We fall, together, onto the ground side of the fuselage. I hear him grunt, feel him reflexively curl away from me. Then he pushes me toward the broken tail section of the helicopter. This is where the smoke and light have been coming from. The tail section appears to have broken off.

I turn back to help him, but he points to one of the packs the soldiers had hung on the sides of the helicopter. I point to it as well and he nods. I climb up onto the seating and tug at it furiously, until it gives up its tenacious hold of the wall, now ceiling. Together we tumble into the side, which served as the bottom, prior to our unintended decent. As I get to my feet, I hear the sound of him tossing his gun belt to me. He had picked up one of the rifles that were scattered about, flotsam from the impact. He yells something at me, but I do not understand him. Then he points to the blue helmet and pistol and mimics putting them on. I do as instructed. As he tries to stand again, I realize why he is failing to do so. He has but one leg below the knee, the other I can not account for. He is rapidly losing blood. I gasp, but the time for this has come and passed. I hear the, now, familiar screams of the undead, outside.

He turns and fires out a hole in the floor, turned wall. I stand, uselessly transfixed by this macabre display, being enacted before my clouded mind. He looks over at me and yells something that I interpret to be “run!” I do. I hold the pack in my hands, rolling out of the disassembled tail section of the helicopter. I look back at the crippled soldier and see him turn his rifle on himself as the zombies are now visibly closing the gap to where he is firing from. His head explodes from the rifle shot. In my diminished capacity, I pause, my mind unable to process this situation. Instinct compels me to flee. I have no recollection of my flight.

The screams of the undead are distant from me now. My weary limbs can no longer support me as I give in to the relentless pull of the Earth. I collapse into a pile of leaves, coming to rest under some brush. I roll onto my back, my exhaustion precipitates an uncontrolled fit of laughter; relief from the terror, and the overall confusion. I have no idea what I am laughing about. Tears mark my cheeks, where they vacate the dark patches of soot from the smoke that coated my exposed flesh. I could be forgiven for looking much like the undead at this point. I certainly feel half alive.

I rest, catching my breath, but still wary. I have learned to always be wary, they come abruptly, ravenously. While I rest, I draw the pistol. My brief training at the compound serves me. I know how to release the magazine. I see it is full of bullets. I push one out with my thumb. It has 9mm engraved into the back of it around the silvery middle. I commit that to memory. I have a 9mm pistol. I put the magazine back into it and examine the rest. The safety is off. The hammer is not back, so it may not be ready to fire. I pull the back of the slide as we were taught and it puts a bullet into the port as I release it. I know that it is now ready to shoot. I consider putting the safety on, but in my ill experienced state, should I need it quickly, I would not remember to flip it up to fire. I know that it is more dangerous, but should I need it, I will need it quickly, and if it is not able to shoot, it will be my death.

I replace it back within the canvas holster. It is far too large, and I spend some time adjusting it. Then I get to my knees. I have spent far too long in one place. I am unprotected, lost, and on my own. I do not allow my mind to navigate the myriad of ways I will meet my demise. I have to take control of the situation, not let it take control of me. “Okay, Ellie, change of plans. We are not going to Ithaca, we will not be spending the rest of our life on a beach, fishing and probably repopulating Earth.” I tell myself, somewhat over dramatically, but given my circumstances, I feel such an extravagance is acceptable, this one time. “No, it seems we will be learning to survive, in this... place. Which brings to question, where is this place?” I at this point recognize I am talking to myself, briefly wondering at my own sanity, then really, in a fit of abandon, disregarding the entire notion of losing my sanity. I am the sole survivor of a helicopter crash, in the middle of a strange place, infested with zombies, armed with a dead man's gun. By what do I measure sanity?

With what I label Herculean effort, I collect my legs under me. With a few unsure paces, I begin to walk. I choose to start down the gentle glide, towards the small body of collected water below me. Looking back towards the path of my flight, I see that I ran up a hill, away from what seems to be the burning remains of what used to be an airport of some kind.

As I descend unto the water's edge, the airport is obscured from my view. I see only the rise of smoke from the fires. I turn away and attend myself at the waterline. I am a mess. My hands shake as I pull my over shirt off and use it to wash away the soot from my arms and legs. I have various small scrapes and some fresh bruises. I am sure I have more on my shoulders and legs from the turbulent jostling I received. I open the pack. It is full of gear. I pull out some boots, too large, so I remove the laces and toss them aside. I remove some blue and white camouflage blouses and trousers. They are large, but the trousers seem to adjust smaller by pulling two straps on the sides. I take off the gun belt and my own boots. They are military style boots, given to me at the compound, since my trainers had been ruined. I quickly undress and pull the trousers on, then blouse over my undershirt. They fit very loose, obviously too large, but they are clean and dry and will protect me more than the shorts and thin tank top I had. I buckle the gun belt back on and return to examining my supplies.

I sit on the blue helmet as I pull what remains out. There were three sets of the cammies, another pair of the boots, that I remove the laces from, then discard them as well. I find a couple of the packaged meals, then on the outside, the harness that many of the soldiers wore. I spend some time learning how they assemble to the gun belt. I can now attach the two canteens and what appears to be a first aid kit. That will come in handy. In another pouch is what appears to be a small sewing kit. Another has iodine tablets for purifying water. I sip some canteen water as I survey the final items of the inventory. Some magazines for the pistol. I find two grenades but decide not to mess with those, they seem dangerous. I find a gas mask, which I am not sure would work on me, it seems too large. Dubious, I discard it. The compass looks useful. I keep it. Finally, I find what I assume is a bible of some sort. It is not in a language I understand. I discard it, though I do that with some reverence, considering it must be a very special item to be in a soldiers gear.

 

I know that it is foolish, but I turn back towards the smoke. If I am to survive, wherever I am. I will need something more than this pistol. That airport is the only place I know of. So with trepidation, I make my way back to the site of this tumultuous adventure.


	2. Welcome to Chenarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie Discovers just how bad things are.

A Survivors Story Chapter 2  
Chapter 2  
Welcome To Chenarus

I must wait for hours, biding my time in the abandoned air traffic control tower. Below me, partially obscured by the smoldering fire, partly by the assembled mass of undead, is the helicopter. I sit on a chair, leaning my chin upon the window ledge, trying to puzzle out, how does one gain purchase to the rifles, with those zombies in a feeding frenzy. I count no less than a dozen. I could not possibly hope to kill them, before they swarmed upon me and killed me. This will be a very difficult thing. As I continue to ponder this riddle, fortune favors me. Three deer catch the attention of the feeding mass. I hear them howl in their insatiable hunger as they chase off after the fleet footed deer. It is oddly amusing to me, from this distance, knowing those monsters stand no chance at all, of catching those deer. Still, they stumble off after them, leaving the remains of the crew and passengers, as well as the vital equipment contained within the burned out shell, for me to scavenge as I will. Yes, I certainly will.

With trepidation, I descend to the lowermost level. The door creaks just a bit as I open it. I flinch, re-actively. There is nobody, or anything resident to witness the doors squeal. With haste, I find myself hunched over, like in the myriad of war movies, racing along to the helicopter crash site. I look to my left, watching the hoard of zombies comically chasing the deer, whom I feel are entertaining themselves, galloping away a distance, then stopping, allowing the bedraggled motley crew to close partially, then galloping yet further. Inside I smirk, the deer are giving the undead a sort of “piss off” with their antics. Perhaps nature does indeed have a sense of humor.  
Arriving just short of the helicopter, I see three of the soldiers had been thrown from the wreckage. I kneel down beside one, taking the time to un-sling his rifle from his corpse. I unclip the magazine pouches from his harness and attach them to my own. Then notice his knife. I detach that and clip it to my harness as well. I recognize this rifle. It is an AK 74. We trained on these briefly at the compound. I feel a little more at ease. I go to the next soldier and remove the magazines from his pouches and put them into my backpack. I do the same with the final soldier, also taking a pack of chewing gum. There is nothing else of value, until I discover a can opener on him. That, I decide, may be the most important thing I have found yet.

I leave the crash site as the sun appears to have reached its highest point. I have little shadow, which means it must be noon, or close to. It is starting to get warm. I look back at the now distant mob of undead, continuing to chase the deer. I return back towards the way I went last time. I check my compass. It is East. I go East.

The walk helps me to clear my head. At the same time, I begin to feel the aches and pains of the injuries from the crash. My shoulders are starting to hurt, and my right leg is throbbing. Turning to look back, the smoke is just a distant slender finger, reaching into the sky, where it dissipates into a trail that seems to go for miles. Even at this distance, however, I hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire. There is shooting going on at the airport. I crouch down, out of instinct, not necessity. I am torn. Part of me reasons that gun fire means humans. Humans mean safety, usually. At the same time, part of me says, I am a girl, on her own, in a strange land, injured and untrained to defend myself from trained soldiers. The weapons fire sounds like automatic rifles. Soldier carry those. Well, so do I now. It is possible that the gun fire is just another survivor, like myself, scavenging the crash site. If they are soldiers, they will notice the missing magazines, and the missing rifle. If they are able to track me, they will know where to look. I can either turn back and hope they are friendly, or push on, despite the pain I am experiencing. I sip some water, debating this. Such decisions are not to be made in haste, if possible.

I decide that my best fortune lies with heading away from this crash. If the smoke has attracted soldier, or other scavengers, it has also likely attracted zombies. Considering the number of shots I heard, either the large group of zombies had given up on the deer and returned to their feast, or more of them had arrived, or.... more than one group of humans arrived at the crash site at the same time. None of those options appeal to me. The first two, well self explanatory, the last, also is distasteful. If they are willing to kill for what they find there, they most certainly would kill me, for what I have. No, I am better off on my own, for now. At least, until I can figure out just where I am, and who I am dealing with.

I push myself until I can no longer go on. With a reserve of energy, or just raw determination, I climb a tree, far enough up to be beyond the grasp of any undead that might happen upon me. I have seen the Hunger Games, and I know that it is a good idea to find a way to fasten myself to the tree, should I fall while I sleep. I use the shoe laces to tie the back of my harness to the trunk of the tree, so that I am sitting up, then I pull the harness on and clip it secured around me. I am too tired to eat, so I close my eyes, allowing sleep to engulf me.

I awake several times during the evening and night. Strange noises, animals scampering about, at one point a trio of undead wander past, chasing some rabbits. They do not notice me. I remain deathly still. My mind screams at me to flee, to shoot, to do something, but fear paralyses me, which saves my life. I watch them pass, then once my exhaustion once again reclaims me, I fall back into a troubled rest. Morning claims me far too soon.

Pain and fatigue are now traveling companions. We share the journey, they silently reminding me of my predicament. I, their reluctant victim, endure their companionship as I continue East. I opened one of the plastic bagged meals. As I walk, I eat some of it. It has no flavor. Whatever it is, I assume is less important than the nutritional value it purports to offer. I question how large soldiers could possibly survive eating but one of these as a meal. I am much smaller than most soldiers, and even I find myself unsatisfied by the ration. I am left to assume the meal is less about satiating one's hunger, than providing the very minimal level of nutrition that one would need to remain healthy. Expending energy with the demands of war, I question how this is possible. Still, it is all I have to eat, so I eat what it offers, determined not to get into the other bagged meal.

As I finish a portion, I replace the plastic pouch it comes in, back within the larger container. Then once I have finished it all, I carefully conceal that within some bushes. Sure, a trained soldier might be able to track me, but it does not mean I have to make it easy for them, and just toss it aside.

It is long after noon before I come to a hill over looking a city. I sit down, resting my legs. I am so very tired. Below me, the city looms, in ruins. It is the same picture as everywhere else in the world. The sudden infestation of zombies caused mass chaos. The fleeing survivors fought to find their way to whatever they identified as safety. The military and police, overwhelmed by both the chaos, as well as the growing zombie hoards, fell into panic and their concerted efforts failed to protect not only the civilians, but not even themselves. In the end, like all elsewhere, the result was predictable. The civilization fell. Mankind was decimated and scattered. The number of survivors is a fraction of a fraction of what it once was. I heard estimates that less than a million humans remain in all the world. As I look down at the ruins of the city, I am inclined to believe this.

There is activity in the city. I see lights from a vehicle, as well as some hand torches. There are always survivors. I know this. I can see the light dance off the sides of the buildings, as well as the low fence they have made from burned out cars and dumpsters. Upon occasion, one of the survivors ventures to a zombie or two as they collect against the barricades, and they slice them apart with an ax. I decide that I might be safe among that group. They seem to have figured out how to prevent large hoards from massing against their meager barricade. It is then I notice that they have arranged the wreckage of other vehicles so that only a few can approach at any given point, at one time. I smile at the forethought they put into that. Of course, judging by the size of the city, there could not possibly be the sheer number of zombies that there were in a major city like Paris or Hamburg.

I would go down there, but in the dark, I do not think it would be so wise. Instead I return to the tree line and once again, make my night strapped into a tree. As I watch them, down in the little city, I pull out the other plastic bagged meal. I tear open the pouches, one at a time, eating the dry tasteless meal. Once again, as I eat, I wonder if my family, back home, are still alive. I think, in my heart, I have reconciled, they probably are dead. The last news reports out of America looked very grim indeed. Major cities were falling like leaves in a storm. The emergency services had given up on trying to treat the dead or injured. Many police and National Guard members just gave up and went home to try to save their own families. In the end, America, like every other nation, fell apart. I drink from my canteen, laying my head back, wondering if I should bother to pray. I doubt there is a god. I mean, if there is, how does one reconcile all this, with a god that supposedly loves and protects from all of this? I can not do the mental gymnastics to rectify that, so I forget about it and just cry myself to sleep. There is nothing I can do about any of it anyhow. I am just one girl, in a world gone mad. I can not save the world. I doubt I can even save myself. Still, I have done a pretty good job so far, though I honestly have to give credit to the deer, without whom I wouldn't have been able to scavenge the rifle and magazines. Thank you deer.

Day two ends just as day one did, with me strapped in a tree. However, unlike day one, I now have a destination. In the grand scheme of things, I do not suppose that, that, is much of an achievement, but for me, at this moment, it is enough. I have had a little to eat, I am alive, I have some good equipment, and now, if all goes well, I have a destination to go to. Tomorrow promises to be an eventful day. I just hope, it doesn't turn out to be my final day.

I awake slowly. It is morning. I am cold, hungry, and very sore. As I unbuckle the harness, to untie it from the tree, I hear the snap of twigs. I pause, listening closely. I smell them before I see them. Undead are close. I force myself to breath. “C'mon Ellie... they cant reach us up here.” I remind myself as I continue to untie the harness and slip it on. I close the clips, quiet as I can. They are just rambling about, no particular direction. I take the bag of empty food pouches and raise it over my head, prepared to throw it to distract them if I must. They come closer, I can feel the fear in my chest like a fist around my heart. I swear I can not breath. I feel my stomach wanting to vomit up what little I have eaten, or maybe just bile. The smell is horrible. The stench of putrid rotting flesh assails my senses, making me gag. My eyes even water from the disgusting abominations walking just under me. My body shivers in fear and I start to consider my options. I can stay here and hope they go away, I can throw the bag and hope it distracts them, but how far, and how long is questionable. Or I can shoot them. The last option, I fear trying. I am close to that human civilization, and to start shooting, they might decide I am shooting at them and return fire, killing me as I am helpless in this tree. So I decide to wait it out. That decision takes the better part of the morning, as they slowly make their way down the hill side towards the human compound, only to be killed once they arrive. I wait a while before I climb down. I am terrified, but I follow, walking down the hill, but I hold my rifle over my head. Zombies don't carry rifles, and this also shows, I am not wanting to shoot. I hope they interpret that as I intend it.

I walk towards the barricade and stop when one of them raises a hand to me. “I do not understand you.” I tell them, hoping they understand English. At least one does.

“We were waiting for you. I was wondering if you planned to spend another day in your tree.” he says grinning. I must look as stunned as I feel, because he points to one of the guards, who has a scoped rifle. “He spotted you yesterday, but we realized you are just a girl, so we did not shoot. I am glad you decided to come join us. I am Valeri. You can call me Val. Welcome to Grishino.” he says escorting me to where they have some food laid out.

“I'm Ellie. I'm from... America. I was going to school in Paris, till Paris fell. We were evacuating, but the helicopter crashed.” I say telling him what I assumed he probably mostly figured out. I do have a bit of a French accent, and he surely saw the helicopter fly over and saw the smoke from the crash. For all I know, it was his people that were at the crash site yesterday. But if they wanted me dead, I would already be dead. Right now, they are my best chance at survival.

“Yes, we saw the UN helicopter get shot down. I sent some men to try to find survivors, but they found only zombies, and some of our not so friendly neighbors. You were very fortunate you did not run into them. They would likely have just killed you and take your guns, or, taken them and then taken what they could take, from you. Very bad people out there.” he says as I eat something that I think is chicken. I hope its chicken. Please let it be chicken!

“I have someone... his name is Banksy, he is English, he will be assigned to help you to fit in here.” he says. I nod, glad to know I can at least talk to someone.

“How did he get here?” I ask. I look around for him, wondering what he might look like. Everyone here is dressed in some makeshift outfit. Most of them have on at least cammie bottoms, some the blouse too. Many are in just cargo pants and heavy shirts. I hate to say it, but they all kind of smell. Bathing, I guess, is not regular. The clothes look dirty and shabby. Everyone is armed. The one thing I notice is how they all keep their guns clean. Priorities, I guess.

“That is a good question. I am sure he would love to know that answer as well. You see, Banksy seems to have lost his memory.” Val tells me. I blink a few times, wondering if that is because he wanted to forget the past, or because it's easier to tell people you just don't remember.

“I don't suppose it really matters anymore. The past is... another lifetime anyhow. Everything seems like it was a million years ago.” I say as I sit down on a nearly broken chair. It creaks under me. Some other girls about my age go by. They also are armed, but only with pistols. They are jabbering away in whatever language they speak. “So... where am I?”

 

“Chenarus. Former Russian State.” he says. Okay, so they speak... Russian? Sure, may as well. That explains the Cyrillic. I nod, satisfied with the answer. If I recall, its South of Germany. Makes sense. It's in the flight path of the helicopter, en route to Ithaca. I look at the rustic houses. Many of them are wood structures, some are brick. Not many seem to have plumbing and few have electricity. At least in this area. Farther into the city, the taller buildings had power lines and telephone poles. But most of the roads seem paved, and at least its closer to civilization than sitting in a tree. I suppose, in a world gone mad, even something as simple as this, can be considered quite extravagant. Still, it has food, drink, safety, and from the looks of it, a soft place to sleep, I do believe I will stay here, at least for the time being.


	3. Rumors and Portents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets better, it gets worse

A Survivors Story Chapter 3  
Chapter 3  
Rumors and Portents

My first two weeks in Chenarus have become rather routine. I wake up, help with making breakfast. Then we go out with the guard detail and tend to the crops on the roof tops of the taller buildings, up where a casual scavenger would not easily find them. In the afternoon, we have a larger meal, then in the evening, we gather to spend time together. During those times, I stay by Banksy. He is about my age, tall, handsome, and very capable. He is terribly British, proper and kind of awkward, which only makes him more adorable.

We become great friends right off. His sense of humor is much like mine, which is to say, it is difficult at times to tell when either of us are joking, at least to others. We are both sort of outcast, to a degree. Since neither of us are Chenarian, we are considered outsiders. So the group tends to speak in Russian, even though they know we don't understand most of what they say. I discover that many in the group here do speak at least passable English, but they refuse to do so unless they have to.

Over the last two weeks, Banksy and I find time to talk, alone. Neither of us are really satisfied with the current arrangement. Yes, it is safe, as much as anywhere is safe these days, but we both have heard bits and pieces about another group, a larger group. They hold a large city called Novomitrovsk. They call themselves the Gents of Novo. Apparently, from what we put together, they are, or were, allegedly, British S.A.S. That were flown in to help some U.N. Forces to find a scientist that was supposed to have developed a cure for this epidemic. Now, I doubt much of that story, I have no idea why the S.A.S. Would need any U.N. Troops to help them. If anything, they would slow the Brits down. But, the fact they are British, does make them more appealing. After all, we would have something in common.  
Banksy agrees with me that we need to quietly put away some supplies, then slip away one night. So for the last week, we have, and are now ready to make good our departure. Unfortunately, the group has confiscated my weapons, so we had to steal some. Fortunately, Banksy is able to get a hold of some stuff. We end up departing with a machine gun called an AKM, I got an AK 101, which he tells me won't kick as much as the AK 74 does. We also sneak away with two machine guns, and he takes an extra pistol. We carry lots of canned food and water, and just after everyone goes to bed, we sneak off. By the time anyone will notice we are gone, we should have at least six hours head start. They will be absolutely enraged at the loss of gear, but we both doubt they will give much of a chase. The group will just accept the loss, and carry on. Chasing two people through Chenarus would be dangerous and nearly impossible.

We walk along, talking quietly. He is experienced enough to know that many survivors have taken to just murdering other survivors. Often they do it for no reason at all. Apparently, Armageddon is just an excuse for some people to act upon their most inhuman impulses. In a world where just surviving is a daily accomplishment, you would think adding pointless murder into the equation would be unthinkable. Well, nobody said you have to be intelligent to be a survivor, just lucky, I guess.

It is early morning before we pause. Traveling at night, I do not know where we are and rely on his experience. He informs me we are at Devils Castle. I look around wondering where this castle is, before I realize that we are not surrounded by the ever present trees, the darkness surrounding us, is caused by the crumbling walls of the castle.

We are both tired. He invites me to join him sitting on part of a crumbled wall. I do, eager to share more time with him. He seems more relaxed now that we are away from the camp. It is true, that we are likely in more danger now, but we are on our own. We share a tin of beans and some Pipsi, watching the sun coming up. “It will be at least a few more days before we reach Novo.” he says suddenly. “Chenarus is a huge place. Fortunately, it was never heavily populated, so with luck, we should not encounter too many zombies.” he says so casually, its almost like discussing the weather.  
“Well, I suppose it would be too much to hope we encounter no zombies at all.” I say trying to at least put that thought out there.

He grins, but shakes his head no. “No chance we miss them all. But the sub-machine-guns are silenced, so if we do encounter just a few, we should be able to dispatch them without drawing more. If we are lucky.”

“I survived the fall of Paris, the fall of Hamburg, and the fall of my helicopter. I think I'm either the luckiest girl in the world, or I've used all nine of my lives.” I say tucking my hair up under the now worn and tattered blue helmet. He snorts, shaking his head at my blue helmet. He shrugs, not understanding why I wear it. I just like it. It reminds me of that dead soldier, that died to give me time to run, died so that I might live.

“Wait, get down, you hear that?” he says motioning with his hand for me to duck behind the old crumbled wall. I do, tossing the empty can of beans aside. I pull the silent machine pistol up, peeking around the wall towards the sound. Banksy peeks over the top, watching the dust kicked up by a vehicle approaching from the East. “We need that truck.” he says flatly. I nod agreeing. We do.

The truck groans as it accents the hill. Finally the driver parks it and he and another man get out, going into part of the castle. Banksy motions towards the truck, and I start to make my way over to it. He leads the way until we get to a juncture in the castle. He points to the truck and nods. I keep going. As I open the door, it squeaks just a bit. I look back afraid that I blew the deal. Nobody comes. I get in, holding my breath, as well as the door, as closed as I can without actually slamming it shut. It is an old model, looking like it was designed and built in the 1950's or something. Inside the gauges are all in Cyrillic, and there is no obvious key or ignition. I am glad he intends to drive. I have no idea how to start this thing.

I slide down in the seat as much as I can. The floorboard is mostly rust. There is actually a piece of wood covering what appears to be a hole in the bottom of the floorboard. The seat is no longer padded, the springs nearly push through the worn leather. A blanket has been thrown over it, and I try not to wonder what sort of insects might live inside the seat or that blanket. Outside, it is, or at one time, was, olive drab. Much of it has been painted over with various colors, and what was not painted over, is rusting. There is no bed on the back, just bare rails with the back wheels fully exposed. I have seen a lot of junkers in my short life, but this piece of shit is the worst.

Banksy emerges from the castle running. His long legs cover the ground quickly. He is carrying what appears to be an old sword. I roll my eyes. Really? He had to stop to get that? Boys. I will never understand them.

He reaches the truck just as the two men also exit the castle. They see him getting into the truck and at first I think are just stunned that someone else is here. Then they look at each other, then at us, as if thinking, “Are those two seriously stealing our truck?” Yes, we are.

I open my door just a few inches and slam it shut. Banksy opens his door and jumps in, tossing the sword and his pack on the seat next to me. The end of the sword covering, the scabbard, pokes me in the leg hard and I glare at him. Then the first shots fly past us. He starts the truck, pushing a button under the steering column that I didn't see. The old engine sputters but fires up after a few turns. He grinds the gears at first, till it shifts. Meanwhile, they are getting closer. He turns the truck and we start to race down the hill. The two guys are yelling, cursing us in Russian, one shaking his fist at us, the other trying to reload his rifle. By the time he does, we are already around a bend and out of sight.

We are both laughing. That was really amazing, dangerous, and rather funny, at least for us. I am sure they probably do not agree, being stranded now, in the middle of nowhere. Still, if we could survive, so can they. They are even natives, so they should stand a better chance. “Oh my god, did you see that guy's face?” I say laughing so hard I almost can't breath.

“Yea, sorry mate, we just need to borrow your truck, you understand.” he yells out the window. We both know they can not hear it, and even if they could, they would have no idea what he said.

“That was some serious gran theft auto shit.” I say as we bounce all over down the rough dirt road. “I can't believe we just did that.” I say shaking now. The fear catches up to me and I am visibly shaking.

“That just happened.” he says trying to look cool, but I see his fingers white on the wheel, to keep himself from shaking as well. I had thought he was going to kill those men. The thing is, at the time, I was kind of okay with it. I mean, I would have been upset, but as we saw, they were not going to just let us have it, and there was nowhere for us to sit. Besides, they were going in exactly the wrong direction for us. It had to be done. But we chose not to kill anyone, and we got away with it. Truth be told, it was more exciting and far more fun, having to race off, instead of just shooting them and leaving calmly. As we race along, I start to wonder if there is a side of me that craves this kind of danger, this sheer excitement of taking risks, that I never knew I had in me.

We both laugh, somehow oblivious to the indelicate ride the truck proffers, as we trundle along the ancient looking dirt road. To be clear, calling this a road is being rather generous. It looks more like one of the “roads” one sees in the movies about Romans and chariots. My mind then calls to memory the trivial fact that all of those movies are terribly wrong about how they portray Roman roads. In them, the middle sections are always grassy mounds, not unlike this one, however, the reality is, they would never be that way if they really were Roman roads. Chariots, you see, are pulled by horses, usually a single horse. That horse would be located exactly in the middle of the road, so, QED, the middle of the road would have been down trodden into dirt, flattened, just as the sides where the wheels would roll. I'll take useless trivia for 500 Alex.

“We are proper bandits now.” Banksy says smirking. He is looking very pleased with himself. By all rights, he should. We did just do something very dangerous. It was also rather stupid, but somehow neither of us want to approach that point. For now, we are feeling smug and happy. In Chenarus, it seems, just that much, is enough.

We bounce along for the better part of an hour before he slows and pulls to the side of the road. Neither of us say it, but we both have had enough of that truck. We both are quite happy to get out and stretch our legs, as well as just get a general feeling of stability. Off to our left looks like a smoke tendril, we both look at it for a bit before he looks over at me. He doesn't have to ask, I nod. We both were thinking the same thing. Should we go check it out.

After taking a drink and sharing a can of peaches, we get back in, albeit reluctantly, and turn to head overland, to the smoke. It looks to be about twenty minutes drive, at this rate, so we decide to stop about a quarter mile off, then walk the rest of the way in. So we drive along, both of us rather lost in thoughts. Mine are about what we might expect if we do find these Gents, his... I'm not really sure. Banksy is a quiet guy. Even after two weeks, I feel I barely know him. I do trust him. I just don't really know what drives him. I mean, by all rights, he should have just left on his own. Why he is helping me, I do not know. He owes me nothing. If anything, I probably slow him down.

There is nothing to do as we ride along. I turn and look at him as he drives. He is tall. I would guess, probably six foot four. His dark hair is kind of wild and curly, comical in a way. He has a gentle smile, kind looking eyes that hint at having seen too many things he would like to forget. He is quick with a joke, laughs easily, and tends to say things in the most neutral way possible.

Possibly, the thing that someone would notice about him first, upon meeting him, is that he is rather slender, and somehow, looks as if he isn't fully comfortable in his own body. It is hard to explain, really. It is like somehow he is not one hundred percent fully in control of his arms and legs, to some degree. Not like, spastic, or handicapped, more just like he has a bit of awkward clumsiness to him. I suppose it is true of most very tall people. Still, he is very talented, and I have seen him shoot. He rarely misses. So I suppose it is just appearance, or impression.

As we travel, I find myself humming quietly. He looks over briefly, smiles, then goes back to driving. So I sing a little bit, entertaining us as we go. The trip seems shorter, somehow, than it should, but when it is time to pull over, suddenly, the time for smiling and singing is past, and now we are checking our equipment, cambering bullets, and making sure we hide the truck as well as it can be hidden.

The last thing either of us want, is to come back to an empty spot, and end up walking again, as much as we really don't care for the truck. The truck, by the way, is now named Fred. Neither of us can say for certain why, it just is. Fred, is quite the odd chap. What isn't rust, is dented, or damaged. Anything not painted, is either falling off, or broken. The windows do not roll down, except for the passenger side windshield, it does open outward a few inches at the bottom. Why, we are not sure. Russian design? It makes no sense, but seems bullet proof, when it does work. When it doesn't work, it simply can not be fixed.

The doors on Fred are another matter. They open backwards, so getting in and out, it can be confusing. I keep reaching for the handle at the back of the door, so naturally, it is not there. I point this out because, it just seems typical Russian design. If it seems practical and natural for the door to open one way, Russia will do it the opposite, just to be... difficult, I suppose. I guess, in a way, I should be grateful. The sturdy design seems to have held together, since it was built, most likely back in World War Two.

The engine in Fred, however, is another matter. It is small, and weak. There are times when we could go faster if we got out and pushed the damn truck. More than once, I offered, and more than once Banksy smiled and asked if I would be so kind. I was not so kind.

We pull up some brush and cover Fred as much as possible. For once, the fact he is a collection of broken bits and rusted other parts, works to advantage. In the end, it is hard to tell a truck is there. So we gather our packs, pick up our rifles, and start the walk to the smoke.

We crouch behind a small knoll, brush hides our heads as we peek over the knoll, at the scene. There are a few zombies already, where the hell they come from is a mystery. They are focused on what appears to be another helicopter crash. Good Lord, at the rate U.N. Helicopters are crashing, it is a wonder they have any left. Banksy and I line up on the zombies and our silenced little machine pistols make cute little chirps as we shoot. The zombies have no idea where the rounds are coming from, so they just stand there till the last is taken down. Then he tells me to cover him, as he runs down to the crash site. I remain behind the knoll, watching him cover the distance to the site, hunched over as he runs.

He kicks a few pieces of wreckage, then pulls out some magazines, an odd looking rifle, and checks for life with someone still inside the back of the helicopter. Beyond the wreck, I see another movement. Someone is driving to the site in a truck, and they don't see him. I want to get his attention but he is not looking at me. I fire one shot, into the ground off to his side. He turns and looks at me like “what the hell?” and I lean around the bush to point to the approaching truck. He turns and sees it finally and ducks behind the wreckage.

The other truck pulls up to the crash site and four men get out of it, two from the front, two from the back end. He motions for me to stay down. I do, aiming my little machine pistol at the men. Two stay back as two walk to the helicopter. Banksy pulls the dead guy over him, hiding behind him as one of them walk by the open door. He doesn't seem to spot Banksy and walks by. The other guy kneels down by the front, checking the pilots. Both are dead. I hear them yelling back to the guys at the truck that someone has already been here, pointing to the dead zombies. The guy by the truck, he seems to be in charge, yells back “They can't have gotten too far. Find them and kill them.” I swallow a lump in my throat. Great, now we have two groups that want to kill us. Well, I suppose that makes three, since the former owners of Fred would probably like to join that list. I have only been in Chenarus two weeks and I just seem to be pissing everyone off.

Well, I suppose that means I'm making an impact in my little part of the world. Meanwhile, The two guys head back to the truck, as the men get in, They spend some time discussing something, in the cab of the truck before driving off, not quite in the right direction to Fred. Well, at least there's that. These guys might want to kill us too, but at least they also are not good at tracking. Yay us.

Banksy waits till the truck disappears from our view, before he climbs out of the wreck. I am glad because the way the engine area is still smoking, it looks terribly uncomfortable in there. I imagine he is glad to be out of it.

We wait a few minutes before he runs back to where I am hiding. Then we start back towards Fred. Along the way he shows me that he got a map. We now have some idea what Chenarus looks like. The way to Novo is going to take a long time. There are a great number of places between here and there, and we will need to stop at a few of them at least, for fuel and to get food and water. The majority of larger communities seem to be just North of us to the East. After some discussion, we decide to travel straight East, to the coast first. We will miss nearly all the larger communities, and with luck, will reach the Eastern coast in a week.

We spend a bit of time pulling the brush off Fred, then Banksy fires up the rusty old junker, and we start driving East. It doesn't take but a few minutes until Banksy starts to glance back behind us more. I do too and see the other truck, behind us at a distance. He drives as fast as old Fred will go, and they close the gap only a little at a time. We have to be in the slowest, most ridiculous car chase in history. Often, we come to a large hill and crawl up it. The other truck doesn't fair much better, with the additional weight of the bed, and hauling two more guys, it is hardly much faster. I suppose this is why you don't see any Russian movies with car chases. This just doesn't really work, does it? I then hear the impact of a bullet hit the side of the truck. The two guys in the back of their truck are shooting at us over the top of theirs. Well, they clearly have never seen American gangster films, or played GTA. I do what we always do, and turn around and shoot back at them out the window, which, unfortunately, I have to break. Sorry Fred, sorry Fred's former owner.

We trade ineffective fire for a few minutes. They miss a lot because Banksy is good at weaving. I miss a lot because, I just suck at shooting. Truth bomb, sorry.

Then, one of the tyres gets shot and Fred slows. Banksy looks over at me and apologizes, but I know he did his best. “C'mon, we gotta get out and get behind the truck before they get around that corner.” he says pulling me out of the truck.

We make it around the truck just as they appear. The driver seems startled that we are parked, just there, in the middle of the road, so close to the corner, and he swerves abruptly. The passengers in back are summarily discharged onto the road rather suddenly. Neither move after their reunion with Terra Firma. Oh well, they will miss all the fun.

The others start to get out. Banksy hits one in the shoulder as he leans out and he rolls, spinning twice, before he hits the ground. The driver, who we both agree is the leader, successfully makes it to the ground. However, he is struggling to get his rifles sling unhooked from where its caught on the tricky Russian door handle. Ha ha, Russian technology, it'll kill you!

I have no way to shoot him, except for his feet, so I fire at them and hear him scream. Oh My God! I just shot someone! Banksy looks at me a bit startled. “Really, Ellie... in the feet?” he says surprised. I shrug.

We carefully walk around to the guy, who is now laying on the ground helplessly. “My feet... you shot me in my feet! Who does that?” he demands as we approach. I blush a bit, feeling sheepish. Banksy tilts his head, partially in agreement. I suppose it is an odd place to shoot someone. Well, he did start this.

 

“Listen mate, you should not have started shooting at us.” Banksy says as I go to cover the other guy that just now groaned. He will live, probably. He might not like it, but he will. I pull his rifle off him and remove his pistol before he is fully awake. Then I go collect the rifles and pistols off the other two, both dead, laying in the road between the trucks. Banksy strips the driver of his weapons, and we pull him and his friend into the roadway. We lay them next to the bodies of their friends. “Now, when your mate here comes to, you and he might find a way to get yourselves back to wherever you come from.” Banksy says making it clear we do not intend to just murder them. However, we will not be helping them either. So I gather our stuff, put it in the cab of their truck, and we leave the two of them with the now crippled Fred, and we continue on. Behind us the leader of the small group screams obscenities at us. He is really pissed off. In his rage, he is putting together adjectives that do not normally go together, to insult my heritage. It is really almost an artistic thing. If half of what he yells were true, I would have blood relations with various animals and quite a few relatives. Banksy is trying not to laugh. I can't help it and start to laugh as well. As we leave in Bob, the name of the new truck, we see the leader slapping the wounded guy to wake him up. I suspect, that is not going to end well. Oh well, that is life in Chenarus. If he had just left us alone, he would still be walking, and we would still be bouncing along in Fred. Instead, he had to be an dickwagon and now he is crippled and stuck with Fred, who will need a tyre replaced before he goes very far at all.


	4. The Artful Dodger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dodger... nuff said

A Survivors Story Chapter 4  
Chapter 4  
The Artful Dodger

Our sojourn delivers us, some four hours later, to a petrol station. I would name the specific location, but this small farming community appears to not warrant an official name, so Banksy and I christen it “That Place.” After filling the tanks of the truck and looting whats left in the office, we drive into the farming community formerly known as just a farming community, and park at the corner of No and Where. The smell of rotting corpses still lingers prevalent here despite, or perhaps more correctly, because of the weather. We dispatch a few of the ever present zombies, then climb into the bed of the truck to stretch our legs and take turns trying to nap for at least a half hour. Both of us are feeling the fatigue of the harsh ride.

Finally, we separate from the old truck, walking further into the town, beyond some burned out vehicles that impede further progress into the town, via truck. We need to find some food and top off our drinking water, as well as hopefully find some blankets and a couple pillows to put in the truck, to make sleeping in the bed more comfortable.

Banksy scores quickly, finding a broken down truck that seemed to be carrying bottles of drinking water. We refill our canteens, then carry a couple bottles along as well. Water plays a very vital role in survival. A human can go a long time without food, but will dehydrate very quickly.

He is helping me lift some fallen ceiling panels off a snack machine when we hear someone humming. Both of us drop the pannel, which was entirely the wrong thing to do, as the noise alerts the visitor. We look at each other with that “I thought you had it..” look, before turning to see her.

To describe Dodger in any way other than spectacular, would be to diminish the term spectacular. Though we are in the grip of what can only be mankind's most desperate hours, Dodger stands in the doorway to the large room we are in, sipping from a coffee mug. Her dark hair is carefully pulled back with just a few stray curls highlighting her face. She is taller than me, possibly closer to five foot, seven inches tall. Even though she is taller, she seems somehow as petite, with her slender build. I would guess she is, or was, a dancer of some sort.

She is leaning against the door frame, one hand holding the cup of coffee, real coffee, while the other picks some lint, unseen by either of us, off her camouflage blouse. I would point out, both her trousers and blouse still retain sharp creases where they have been ironed. Her boots are no longer shiny, but are in excellent repair, and she has a fresh manicure. I am instantly jealous. At the same time, I hate her, and adore her.

Banksy slowly lowers his hands towards his gun belt, but she simply smiles and taps her MP5K, slung around her neck and shoulder. He revisits that idea and just places his hands at his sides. I, however, am not as level headed as Banksy, but in this instance, I am also not aware of the threat she presents to us. I am too taken aback by her amazing manicure.

“Oh hello, sorry for the noise.” I say waving to her with a smile. She looks over at me, blinking twice, her face unreadable. I shrug and go back to trying to lift the ceiling panel. Banksy stands immobile for a moment, clearly pausing to decide whether to assist me, or to puzzle out this stranger. As far as I am concerned, if she wanted to kill us, we would be dead, so why be concerned. She clearly has this situation at her advantage, so, carry on and let her do as she will.

He helps me lift the panel off, then we roll the machine on to its side, using a large pry bar, to pop it open. This, by the way, is no simple feat. If you are thinking of trying it, I recommend not. There are far more entertaining ways to spend a half hour.

Once its open, we collect a couple shopping bags full of the cans inside. Our stranger eventually relents on her stoicism long enough to assist us. We work together, silently until we arrive back at the truck, which still awaits us, patiently. We push the loot into the bed of the truck, taking time to tie the bags containing the cans of soda to the spring that would hold the spare tyre, were the truck to have one.

“This is not your truck.” she finally says matter of factually.

“It is now.” Banksy says looking at her with some challenge in his voice. “We took it, fair and square.” He says defiantly.

“I imagine Roberts had something to say about that. He wont stand for having a truck stolen.” she says pointing to the side where it has a logo crudely painted on the doors. We both had seen it, but paid no mind to it, having no idea what it meant. Apparently it was the logo of the collective that this Roberts belongs to.

“He won't be standing at all.” Banksy says grinning. He takes off his blouse, pulling his harness on over his tee shirt. Dressed like this, one could easily mistake him for an experienced soldier. He looks the part, to be sure. In my opinion, he acts the part as well. Calm, reserved, detached and observant, usually, he fits the mental image I have of a soldier.

“So, Roberts is dead?” she says sounding as if she would like to hear confirmation of that.

“No, not dead, at least not when we left him. But he will not be standing again, possibly, ever.” he says grinning a bit more. “Ellie shot him in the feet.” he says with a bit of a laugh.

“What? In the feet? Who does that?” she asks surprised, looking at me suddenly oddly. I shrug, what is there to say to that?

“We left them a few hours back, where they tried to run us down. If they are friends of yours, you might be able to find them before one of the zombies do.” Banksy explains as he replaces the cap on a bottle.

“They are no friends of mine. I don't think anyone will miss them, but they will definitely miss their truck. You might want to repaint it, or scrape that off. Other clans might not take kindly to seeing a Broken Moon clan truck in their territory.” she says. Banksy nods, agreeing with the logic. I just listen. This is the first I have heard of clans. Then again, I just arrived, so I have not experienced the apocalypse the way the residents of Chenarus have.

“You mean there are more than one group?” I ask sounding as naive as I am, I suppose. I would have just held my question, but they seemed to have reached a stopping point in their discussion and I had questions.

“Yes, many. After the government abandoned the country, several groups came in. Russians, Germans, even the U.N. Each group tried to bring some kind of order. At first, Chenarus was outbreak free, but according to the stories I've heard, it was brought to us by some shipwreck. After that, each group just wasted resources trying to find a way to bring order to the place. Clearly, that has not worked. Instead, each group more or less, carved out it's own little area of influence. Now if you want protection, you join a clan, or go solo, and tough it out in the wilderness.” she says as if talking to a child. I rather resent that, but I suppose I must seem rather ignorant to not know that.

“Her plane went down West of Grishino. She is new to the area.” Banksy says seeing my discomfort. “She was in Paris, apparently its fallen. We had hopes, the French seemed the closest to finding a solution.” he says slowly. I can tell it is difficult for him, being English, to admit the French were marginally more successful than the English. London, and the rest of the U.K. fell not long after the United States. France and Germany, having stronger health care systems, as well as less condensed populations, were able to make some gains in working towards a cure, or at least an inoculation.  
They did not have time to find the cure, but they did at least create the inoculation, so that this outbreak dies with the afflicted. For those of us inoculated, we are immune to the virus, if bitten, but there is no hope for those already infected.

I had discussed the infected with a girl I shared a room with in the U.N. compound. We eventually came to the conclusion that if we were infected, we would probably not want to be cured. If you think about it. Lets say a mother is infected. She becomes one of the zombies and eats her two infant children and husband as they sleep, or otherwise is able to eat people she knows. Then she attacks and eats complete strangers, like some mad animal. Then you cure her. How do you think she would handle the knowledge of what she has done to her babies, her husband, or wife, or friends? I mean, they EAT them! They tear them apart, with their bare hands, and pull their guts out and eat them. Even if you COULD be cured, who would want to live having those memories? It is a tender mercy, to put them down. I imagine, somewhere inside their minds, perhaps trapped by the virus, is a tiny part of their mind, screaming to die rather than go on.

“That is fortunate.” she says politely. “My name is Dodger.”

“That is Ellie, I am Banksy.” He offers his hand and they shake politely as I observe. They are both English, which I am kind of jealous of now. I feel rather out of place. It seems that both the English and the Russians have a large population here in Chenarus. I should clarify, by large population, I mean, only, relative to the population of everywhere else. These days, a population center of more than a thousand, is considered a mega-center. I have been in two, and both of them fell. It seems that the infected have some way of sensing clusters of humans. The larger the cluster, the more zombies seem to be attracted to it. I have nothing to back that up, it is just my observation. I could be completely wrong.

“Nice to meet you.” she says as we hear gunfire. The conversation cuts short as we all grab our gear. Banksy looks up, scanning the few buildings, for a vantage point. Dodger lifts out the odd looking rifle, that I now know is a Steyr AUG. She checks it over quickly, then grabs two magazines that I assume would work with it, and starts off to where Banksy is looking. He sees her and motions for me to get under the truck. I do so and he crosses the street, going inside a two story brick structure.

As I lay under the truck, I see five men, all dressed in quasi military gear, black arm bands on, moving quickly through the silent farm community. One points to the truck and two start towards it as two others split off to head towards the houses along the sides of the street. The leader crouches behind a burned out police car, pulling what seems to be a hand radio from his back pack. I can not hear what he says in it.

I hide between the back wheels until they are too close for me to feel brave anymore. I take a deep breath and lean out from behind the tyres, aiming my silenced machine pistol as the only part of them I can see and pull the trigger. I hear them both scream as bullets tear at their boots.

Meanwhile I hear the odd sound of the odd rifle fire from the top of one of the wooden structures. One of the men screams briefly, but not a full scream. Tracers from the rifle have found him and killed him. However, it alerts the other two to Dodger's location.

They both spin and fire, but are taken by surprise by Banksy from the upper window on the other side of the street. One goes down quickly, the other tries to turn to return fire but Dodger pegs him as well. The leader, seeing his squad taken down so fast, tries to climb over the police car, to escape, but I fire, just hoping to keep him busy, and hear him yell. He falls backwards, back onto the ground in front of the car. Then I roll out from under the truck, covering the two in front of me, who are still screaming in pain, trying to drag themselves to some kind of cover.

It is over as abruptly as it begins. My heart is still racing, and I feel the adrenaline pumping through me like a drug. I cover the two guys in front of me until Banksy returns to collect their weapons. He looks at their bloody boots. “In the feet again?” is all he says shaking his head.

Dodger has come down from her position and is dragging their leader towards us. He is limping as he comes, cursing in a language I do not understand, but presume is Russian. “She shot him in the heel. What is with your girl and toe capping?” she asks looking at me as if she is disturbed.

“That was an accident.” I say shrugging. It was, but I doubt anyone believes me, the evidence so far would indicate otherwise, to be fair.

“I suppose they were an accident too... like Roberts?” she says laughing. Banksy laughs too.

“Do something, I'm bleeding out.” one of the two I was guarding says in broken English. I see Dodger looking around, then tugs the guys own shirt off, wrapping it around his feet.

“She shot their feet too?” their leader says now in English. “Who does that?”

“Why do people keep asking that?” I finally yell at them. Okay, its weird, yea, so what. I just was shooting where I could hit them. I swear!

“You guys are lucky we got the toe capper. If you had been less lucky, you would have been killed by me or him.” Dodger says threateningly in Russian. I only know this because Banksy translates for me quietly.

I do not like that name. I am not liking this at all. When we eventually throw all their weapons in the truck bed, along with the weapons from the other four guys from earlier, they start to pile up. “We will have stuff to trade.” Banksy tells me. I nod, understanding.

Dodger at least stems the blood flow of the wounded, leaving them upstairs in one of the buildings. We leave them some food and water, from the truck we found, and wish them luck. I doubt they will have much luck, even as we leave the little farm community, we see the zombies heading towards the dead we left outside. I try not to think about the implications, since we did not leave them any guns. They would not have left us with guns, and had we, they would surely have tried to kill us as we left. That much they made clear. I have no remorse, not really. They could have just left us alone. Maybe I did fire first, but I was trapped under the truck, and we learned later, they were looking for Dodger, to kill her, for the same clan we stole the truck from. There was no peaceful way we were going to resolve that.

As we ride along, in back, Dodger is checking out the hand radio she stripped off their leader. She is holding it to her ear, and I wonder just what it is she hears. Whatever it is, she is absolutely delighted by it. I suppose in Chenarus, after the apocalypse, entertainment is what you make it.

 

Banksy drives East, the sun is going down, and the shadows are starting to get long. We stop short of what may be a suburb of Gvazdno. It is too dark to continue, and we dare not risk headlights. Dodger spots what looks like a perfect formation of bushes and we pull the truck into them, taking time to break off limbs and put them on the hood and roof. It is very well concealed by the time we decide to eat. Banksy and Dodger work out a watch system, he will take first watch, then she the second, I take last watch, but I know, by then, they will be mostly awake. Nobody really considers me as capable as they are. I suppose it is true. Dodger is clearly trained for survival, and Banksy is experienced. I, am not. So I accept the tasks of making food, cleaning the weapons, and generally being treated like I'm too incapable to survive without them. However, I did make it just fine until I met him, so I know, if I had to, I could probably make it... maybe... sorta...


	5. The Bandits And The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It never seems to go our way

A Survivors Story Chapter 5  
Chapter 5  
The Bandits And The Dead

A day and a half later, we find ourselves in a little farm community called Khelm. Travel takes a lot longer in Chenarus, than it does elsewhere. The roads are mostly paved, but not always. Wrecks line the road where bandits roam. When we would see a line of burned out vehicles ahead, Banksy would stop, letting Dodger out. She would scout up ahead. At times we would hear a shot or two, which were not her. The AUG she carries sounds different. It would be whoever she met. They never seemed to last long, and quite often, would only get one or two rounds off. Dodger tells me she merely scares them away, but I suspect, by the number of items that “appear” in her pack, that they did not just run away.

We refueled a couple times, never able to fill the tanks of the truck, but at least keeping us moving. A few times, we would stop long enough to shove a screwdriver through the gas tanks of another truck, draining a small amount of fuel from them, where they still did not have quite enough to pump to the engine. Every little bit helps. Dodger salvages parts off them; hoses, belts, batteries. We even manage to put a couple wheels on the spare wheel mounts. They look like they might take us a ways, in a pinch. The truck is starting to be the anchor that holds our group together. We work well, as a team, taking care to keep it running. While we drive, I keep my eyes scanning for anything that seems odd.

Khelm is a really nice little community. I imagine it was quite lovely before the apocalypse. If you can overlook the burned out vehicles, the broken windows, the rotting corpses, and the lack of electricity, it almost seems pleasant. We spend the first three days there, just piling up the corpses and burning them. Dodger drags some wire out from a shed, making zombie fences. They are not designed so much to stop them, though they look as if they could, but to alert us if a hoard starts to enter Khelm.

We start to learn each others habits. Dodger is an early riser. She usually has been up and out hunting, or looting, well before sunrise. Banksy is a light sleeper. I suppose he learned to be like that, living out in the wastelands. He is aware when she comes and goes before I even realize shes come or gone. As for me, well, I'm not sure what value I have to them. They tolerate me though, so I suppose, that is enough, for now.

I am just starting to feel like Khelm is home, when Dodger and Banksy go off to have one of their private discussions. This one seems different. Dodger came back this morning looking more than a little upset. I know that the search for fuel has been unsuccessful, so far. I suspect she has determined there is no possible fuel source within her search range. Still, this time, Banksy comes over looking a bit worried, which is not a look I get often from him. He announces in no uncertain terms, we are leaving as soon as we can pack up. I want to ask why, but he is not having that. This is not a discussion, its a fact. So I pack up what little kit we have managed to scrape together, throwing the few pans, and the cooking pot, some cutlery, a nice tripod for cooking, and some boxes of canned goods, into the truck bed.

We each take a turn taking one last shower using a hose hooked up to a water pump, attached to the top of a board. It works fairly well and is a bit of heaven after weeks of washing off with a wet cloth. Dodger stops me from using any soap. At first I protest, but she explains that soap has a scent that can be detected by someone on the hunt. If we wish to survive, we need to eliminate as many un-natural scents as we can. I accept this because Dodger seems to know stuff.

I wash my cammies, laying them on the bed of the truck to dry, and wear one of the other sets. Today I decide to wear my helmet again. I feel less secure now that we are leaving what I have considered home, so abruptly. Dodger has taken some green paint and painted over the emblems on the truck. Banksy, meanwhile, has pulled the middle jump seat out of the trucks cab, putting a box of ammo and his AKM there. He is definitely expecting trouble. That bothers me. Still, this is Chenarus, trouble always seems to be a heartbeat away.

Banksy and Dodger discuss which way to go, East would take us to the coast, and to a city called Berezino. Dodger advises against that, and when I say advises, I really mean, absolutely refuses to go there. Banksy doesn't argue that point, understanding that she knows this area better than he does. Instead, we head North. Both of them feel we stand a better chance of finding fuel at this small airstrip. They don't even consult me, which I am a little upset over, but I do understand. My only input would be, “whatever.” So I suppose it is just as well.

The weather today is unseasonably warm. We all are in just tee shirts and pants after just a few miles. The clouds are kind of puffy, it is humid. I expect it will probably rain soon, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. The times the clouds drift overhead, shade covers us for a bit, making the air cooler and its almost nice out. We open the windows and even crack the front windows open a bit. The breeze feels good on our sweaty bodies. Dodger has it best, riding in back. She prefers to ride in the back.

The road heading towards the airstrip would be very winding and Dodger advises we stay off it, instead taking the truck off road, up over the hills and through the forest. Banksy questions the wisdom of that, but agrees that the odds of banditry are lower off the roads, where they would not be expecting the truck to go. It is a loud truck, so I question if there is anywhere it can go, that a bandit wouldn't hear it coming. But with the hills, the echo does make it extremely difficult to figure out precisely where we are.

We travel for about an hour before we crest a small mountain. On the other side is the smoking remains of a city. Dodger identifies it as Krasnostav. It was basically a small warehouse community, built to support the airstrip it is located near by. We decide to avoid it, figuring it would be the most logical place for a clan to have scouts positioned. So we skirt well around it, keeping it just within rifle scope range, so we can see if someone is going to come for us. Nobody seems to. That makes me happy. I really did not want to have someone come after us.

We stop the truck about a quarter mile off from the airstrip. Dodger runs up ahead. Banksy takes this time to go over the truck, making sure its holding together. So far its been a minimum of fuss. Once or twice it started to make a vibrating noise and we had to stop while they worked on it. I get the feeling, working on one of these trucks, is something they both have done a few times. Each time they fixed it, but neither of them looked too happy about it. I get the feeling it won't make it much farther.

She returns, telling us it looked clear. Banksy asks what the hell “looked clear” means. She replies, “It looked clear.” and gives him those side eyes. He doesn't seem to pleased. “Looks clear is not clear, it is dangerous. Did you scout the fucking airstrip or not?” he says sternly.  
“I scouted part of it, but it is getting late. Either way, the section I scouted was clear. We have to go in, its getting late and we do not want to be out here at night, not in this area, in the clear.” She says.

“Fine, we go in, Ellie, get your AK 101 ready, stay in the back, be ready to bail out if you hear or see anything that looks human.” he says. I don't argue. I get in the back, putting a bullet in the barrel of the rifle. Banksy puts on his armored vest and Dodger pulls her dark jumper over her head, both look prepared for a fight. I buckle the strap on my helmet and give them a thumbs up.

We drive slowly to a hanger section of the airstrip. There are no shots and Banksy pulls the truck into the hanger and we cover it with a tarp and some junk, to make it less obvious it is there. Dodger disappears into the building adjoined to the hanger, rifle ready. Banksy crouches by the door to the hanger and I... stand like an idiot, in the open, watching.

I jump a bit when Dodger grabs my shoulder and pulls me over into the building as well. “Never stand in the open. This isn't Khelm anymore. We haven't got it set up to be safe here. You will either learn to stay behind cover, or you are going to die, you understand Ellie?” she asks, seeming to genuinely care. I nod, feeling humiliated, but thankful to have her show me what I need to know. We were not given this kind of training at the U.N. Compound. This is something people seem to learn by living here, in the hell that is Chenarus.

We lay low for the evening, blocking the broken windows with chairs, boxes full of junk, and pieces of metal. After an hour or two of work, they both feel it is safe enough for us to relax a bit. No zombies will be getting inside without us knowing. Thankfully, they have not been able to turn doorknobs. Perhaps one day, if they do, things will get uglier. Fortunately, the undead seem incapable of doing that, or climbing ladders and ropes, or fences. So some things can be guaranteed to help you to escape them.

We do not start a fire, instead eating a cold meal of beans from cans, some fruit we collected prior to leaving, and toast the journey with some Rasputin Kvass. I only drink half a can, feeling a bit tipsy after even that little. Dodger also only drinks a little. Banksy finishes his, and mine. We silently lean against walls, waiting for sleep to come. Dodger will stay up first, then Banksy, then me.

They both are dozing quietly when I first hear a noise. Not wanting to upset them, I pick up my silenced machine gun and tiptoe over to the hallway outside the little office area we were sleeping in. I don't hear anything for a few minutes, then I hear the sound of a desk drawer being closed. That was a human sound. I look back at the office, considering going back to wake them, but instead I walk down the hallway, peeking into one room, then another. Nothing. Perhaps it was just the wind.

I hear a cough. That wasn't the wind. I tiptoe down a little farther, then step into one of the side offices. I see him there, holding his gun. I freeze, unsure what to do. He turns, seeing me and yells in fright. I do the same. We both nearly fall over ourselves in shock of seeing each other. “Whoa... friendly... I'm friendly!” he says quickly. I hear the others now scrambling to get here fast.

“It's OK, I'm friendly too. I'm not going to hurt you.” I say. He smiles and says the same. Then we both have a bit of a nervous laugh. He looks a hundred times relieved, and I expect I do too. He is dressed in a leather bomber style jacket, cargo pants, and wears a kerchief around his neck. He wears a cowboy hat, which seems strangely out of place with his clearly English accent. From the way he moves slowly, he seems just as afraid of me as I am of him, but I can't take that as fact. I'm new to this, not an experienced “wastelander” like Banksy or Dodger. Still, he smiles, his unshaven face looking weathered but pleasant. Some might say handsome, to me he is older, but to an older woman, perhaps so.

“Bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me.” he says laughing. His voice is full of laughter, like someone who does not laugh nearly as much as they used to. Nobody laughs much anymore. Behind me, Banksy arrives, his AKM held at the ready. After a few second, I see Dodger from outside, looking in at us with her AUG ready. The guy glances at them both, realizing that we really do not intend to kill him, we already would have. He lowers his bolt action rifle down, waving to them. Banksy smiles, inviting him to have breakfast with us. Dodger nods, signifying he is not one of the clan that we are running from. Yes, I do realize that is why we packed up and ran so quickly.  
“I'm Ellie, that's Banksy, that's Dodger.” I say pointing to them. He nods to Banksy, who is too far away to shake hands. He offers his hand to Dodger. Surprisingly, she shakes his hand. She seems friendly enough, something I did not expect of her. That is typical of Dodger, you never know just how she will jump on something.

“I'm Craig. I'm damn glad to meet you, and thank you for not shooting me.” he says to me. I smile. I don't have the heart to tell him that I had forgotten to chamber a round in the machine gun. I couldn't have shot him if I tried. As we gather in the office, I set up the small gas stove we found, heating up some bacon and beans and getting some peaches out for us all to eat.

“So I didn't even know you lot were here.” he says taking a plate with a good helping of food on it. He looks hungry. I am sure he is surprised how we have so much to eat. Food these days, is a luxury, not to be taken for granted. His English manners prevent him from devouring the helping, but I can tell he is starving.

After we all satisfy our hunger, for the most part, Banksy starts to talk again. “So, Craig, where you headed?” Banksy asks as he lifts a can of soda to sip. The two men exchange glances. They both knew this moment was coming. After the initial pleasantries, the interrogation. The ease at which Banksy launches into it leads me to believe he has done this before, many times.

“I was up in Novo, on my way South, maybe to Berezino.” he says quickly. In my opinion, he is telling the truth. Either that, or he had that answer ready all this time. Wow, I would not be good at this kind of stuff.

“So, you know the Gents?” Dodger asks quickly. He shakes his head no. Dodger presses him on that. “They own Novo, don't they?” she insists. “Seems like you would have met them.”

“Met them, sure, but I don't know them. I've met you too, but I don't know you.” He points out. I can see his point. It makes sense. Sure, we meet people. I met the guys in charge of the community I met Banksy in, but I never really knew them, not even Val.

“Fair enough.” Banksy admits. “Would you say they are good?”

“They seem OK. You could do a lot worse. You headed there then, I take it?” he counters. I nod. Banksy mumbles something that sounds a bit like maybe.

“You will want to stay to the East side going in. Some bandits like to try to rob people going in, but they stay to the West side. One you are inside Novo, its a cease fire zone. No killing is allowed. Only shooting is of zombies, but if anyone attacks another guest, they are killed, unless its self defense, obviously.” Craig informs us.

“Hows it look between here and there?” Dodger asks. I can tell she likes the idea of a cease fire zone.

“Well, the Broken Moon clan are scouring the area from Krasnostav to Cernaya Polana. They seem pretty aggressive, stopping anything that moves. They are looking for someone... I'd guess that someone is you?” he asks looking at me. I shrug.

“That someone would be me.” Dodger says grinning. “Roberts and I... we had a disagreement.” Dodger says smirking. She is properly proud of herself. It is rare that someone English gloats, but she most certainly is.

“Well, it was no simple disagreement that has him so fired up. Apparently someone shot him in the feet. Isn't that hilarious? I mean, who does that?” he says laughing. None of us are laughing, but everyone looks at me. “I see... that explains that. But you, he was angry when he left, I heard, looking for a thief.” Craig says, seeming remarkably well informed. “I suspect you stole the map?” Craig asks. Dodger just smiles. Banksy looks at me, and I'm shrugging, having no idea what anyone is talking about. “Well, as much as I would LOVE to know how that turns out, it just so happens, Roberts and I also are on less than social terms.” he says starting to gather his gear. Banksy nods, also starting to gather gear. Our little breakfast is over. Nobody said anything, but it is.

Dodger fills everyone's plate with equal portions of what is left of our meal. We let nothing go to waste and Craig has paid for his meal with valuable information. We were wise to stay away from Krasnostav. It was a trap. Only our luck, and instincts kept us from falling into it. In my opinion, it seemed a little too quiet for a city that size. It didn't even have zombies milling about, and in a city, there always seems to be some.

He finishes his plate, then hands it to me, and I clean it along with the rest. I suppose that is my role in this group. We swap some ammunition with him, also giving him some food and he waves as he sets off. I smile and wave. I have the feeling we will be seeing him again.

Craig disappears into the morning sunlight. Its first rays are just cresting a hilltop to the East, so the shadows are long. It is a lot like the old time Western movies, where the cowboy rides off into the sunset, except he isn't riding, and it isn't sunset. Well, OK, its not really like them, but to me it was. So I spend the next hour washing and putting away the cooking supplies. I repack my clothes, then wait for Banksy and Dodger to get back. They left to try to find some fuel. There are a few wrecked cars in a side lot, but someone burned them and any fuel they may have had is long burned up. The generator behind the building we are in was nearly dry, they siphoned off a bit, but were unable to puncture the tank, it was made of some hardened metal. The truck is too low on fuel to get any farther. If we do not get fuel here, we will be forced to abandon it. That would really cramp us, since we have a lot of equipment packed into the back, plus the loot for trading.

We decide not to start up the truck. Instead, Banksy and Dodger make their way across the runway, to the maintenance facilities on the far side. I stay with the truck, holding my MP5K and wearing my helmet.

The sun continues to rise and the shadows shorten a bit. It gets warmer and the animals become more active. I hear the familiar birds and some sounds of larger game moving here or there in the woods beyond the fence. Sitting in a shadow by the hanger door, I am feeling fairly safe, if something were to come, it would have to come in through this opening, and Id have plenty of opportunity to shoot it first. My mind wanders a bit, I am bored. I know I am not as capable as Banksy and Dodger, but I am not completely incapable. I COULD help if they let me. Instead, I get put on truck watch. Well, I suppose SOMEONE has to stand guard over it. How stupid would it be for us all to go running off, only to return to an empty parking spot?

Fifteen minutes later, I hear the first shots. It sounds like a high pitched shot, like the American rifles the U.N. had at Hamburg. At first one, then several. Then I hear Banksy returning fire with that big AKM. Unlike the other guns, there is no short bursts, Banksy lays into them pretty good and I hear one of them stop shooting. After a bit I hear a few much louder blasts, like shotguns. Then the crack of a very high power rifle. The fighting goes on, shots exchanged quickly, then now and then the boom of that high power rifle.

I wait quietly by the truck, afraid to go look, but eventually I hear the sound of Dodgers gun once, twice, thrice... then nothing else. I hope Banksy is OK... I at least know Dodger is. So I wait... twenty minutes... forty five minutes... an hour...

I peek out of the hanger to see. Nothing... I pace back and forth, wondering what to do. I should go find them. Maybe they are hurt, maybe they need me. They might be dying, and I am here standing around. I should have gone out there right away. If they die, it would be because I am just standing here and not helping them. I am such an idiot!

Finally I see them. Three people. Craig left earlier, so he wouldn't be there. I raise my machine pistol and prepare to fire when I hear one of them say “Put the gun down toe capper!” Its Dodger. I lower my gun, seeing her holding Banksy. Another man is holding him too. Not as tall, but rugged. He is dressed in American military cammies. In fact, all his gear is American military. “Get something to lay him on.” the new guy says with a distinct Boston accent.

I get a pillow and one of the padded mats we sleep on in the bed of the truck, and roll it out. They lay Banksy on it. I see him blinking, coughing a bit. He looks dizzy and I'm worried. Dodger pulls me back a bit as the American tugs the Velcro on Banksy's vest. “It's OK Ellie, he just got hit in the back. Knocked him down a flight of stairs. He is OK, just was out cold when we found him.”

I watch the American as he pulls the motorbike helmet off Banksy's head. Banksy looks at me and half smiles. The face shield on the helmet is broken off and it is scratched up pretty badly, but far better that, than his beautiful face. I reach over taking his hand and holding it.

The American shines a flashlight into his eyes, then feels around his head, neck and shoulders. “No sign of serious trauma that I can detect. He probably just got a concussion. I'm pretty sure he will be OK.” he says in his Boston accent. I notice his cammie blouse patches. Airborne, 1st Rangers. He is an Army Ranger. They are pretty famous back home. He has another emblem that kind of looks like a rifle sight, so I guess he is good with a gun. Probably very good with the gun he carries. It is the U.S. M-4 but his has a big scope on it with a bi-pod and compensator. He must be a sniper. I know Army guys are also trained in first aid, so I trust him when he says Banksy will be OK.

“I guess I fell down.” Banksy finally says blinking his eyes. I smile. “Yes, you seem to have.” I say squeezing his hand. Dodger walks off, saying she needs to check the bodies, and make sure nobody else is coming.

“We need to get moving.” The American says. “Does that thing run?” he asks me. I nod. “We need to get going as soon as we can, that group were just a picket, there will be more once they come missing.” he says.

“We can't. It's almost out of gas.” I say motioning to the truck. He curses, laying Banksy back down after lifting off his vest. “You're luck pal. This vest saved your life. If you had not been wearing it, you'd be dead.” he says showing Banksy where the round was still lodged in the outer layers of the Kevlar.

“So that's what pushed me down the stairwell.” Banksy says reaching out with his other hand to push on it with his finger. “I wondered why I was flying.” he grins. I am not amused.

“Damn you Banksy, you gotta be more careful! You can't go getting shot like that, I need you, I lo....” I stop myself. “I just...”

“It's OK Ellie, I know... and I feel the same. That's why I don't want you getting involved in the fighting.” he squeezes my hand back and then looks over at the new guy. “Thank you. I appreciate your help mate.” Banksy says nodding his head a little.

“My names Shaun. So, you are Ellie and Banksy. You two are the ones Roberts' goons are hunting for. You must be the toe capper.” he says looking at me. I shrug. “He has a bounty out on you. I was trailing those guys, they were going South. I figured they would run into you. According to Roberts, you two were on the run from a group South and West of here. That would put you in the area of Khelm or South of there. I didn't expect they would run into you so far North.” he says calmly. I bite my lip, casually turning so my MP5K is pointing very close to him. Neither Banksy nor I are sure what to think of him.

“Don't worry, I have no interest in bounties. I'm not a bandit. I hunt bandits. I was actually hoping to hook up with you for a bit. Wherever you two go, there will be bandits, until either you die or Roberts dies.” he says matter of factually.

Shortly after, we hear Dodgers gun firing again. He gets up, running off towards the gunfire, searching for Dodger. I pull on the mat that Banksy is laying on, dragging him under the truck. Then I go to the door, looking out, my little machine gun at the ready. I see him run across the runway towards where Dodger is already running from a building, towards another building. There are flashes from the woods nearby. She manages to get to the other building as a steady stream of fire starts up, impacting at the door frame. The American stops, pulls his M-4 up and fires once. The gunfire destroying the building door stops. He lowers his rifle and continues to run. I am impressed by how fast he covers the distance. Even with zigzagging and rolling at times, he eventually joins Dodger at the building. They fire back out the windows for a few minutes.

I am totally taken by surprise when two trucks roll up around the hanger from the back. I see the logos of the Broken Moon clan on the doors and I know, they found us.

Several men jump from the back of the trucks and I know I have no chance. I lower the little machine gun. Even if I shot one or two, even four or five, there must be a dozen or more. I would just be committing suicide. It is better to surrender, I think.

I raise my hands, letting them know we won't be fighting them. They casually start to circle us, then an odd thing happens. One of them just falls down. We all look over at him, wondering what happened. Then another falls down. The rest start to look for cover. I raise my machine gun up and start to shoot, using the confusion to our advantage. Banksy also pulls my AK 101 up and starts to shoot. We manage to drive them behind their trucks, but then another and another drop. Banksy shoots one in the throat, knocking him back from where he was behind the front of a truck. I dive down, behind the side of the hanger door, crouching low. From here... you guessed it. I have quite a few targets, so I open up, hitting at least five boots before I run out of ammo. My extra magazines are in my backpack and my harness, both of which are over by Banksy. I see another of them just drop. Banksy hit another one in the chest. I put my little machine gun around my shoulders and run, round off, whip back, whip back, single half out, I tumble like in gymnastics, ending up on my feet, running the last two feet to safety behind our truck. One of the guys that was shooting at me had a shocked look on his face. The moment doesn't last more than a few seconds, till he starts to shoot again. Banksy raises and eyebrow at me. Hey, I'm a gymnast. We got skills too,you know.

We hear Dodgers gun open up, the last of them drop. In the end, eleven more goons are dead, but our truck is also dead. The engine is dripping oil and water. It wont be going anywhere again. I lower my gun and see about Banksy. He is leaning against the front wheel away from the goons. I can tell he is still in some pain from his fall. Even if he wasn't shot, he did fall down a flight of stairs. That hurts, I know, I've done it.

Dodger arrives as I am helping Banksy to take a drink. She starts to pull the guns away from the dead and disarms the wounded, who are screaming in agony from having their feet shot off. She just looks over at their bloody stumps, then at me. “Again?”

I nod, shrugging. Hey, its what I could shoot at. They stood behind a truck. Nobody said we can't shoot under the truck, right? This time we don't waste bandages on them. She tells them they are fucked, and makes them drag themselves away. The gunfire surely has attracted zombies, so they won't likely survive.

Shaun arrives a minute later, carrying a small gas can, which he realizes we won't need. “Truck is dead.” I say pointing to the truck, as its life's blood continues to run like a river of red and brown into the drain in the middle of the hanger. “It looks terminal.” I say sadly.

“We have two more.” he points out. I nod, stupidly, realizing that is true. We now have two, mostly full trucks. They appear to be in about the same condition, rough. However, they have nearly full tanks, and it wont take us long to transfer the gear from ours to one of them. Shaun and Dodger start stripping the wheels off our ruined truck, throwing them into the back of the other new truck. We now have several spare tyres and he adds the gas can as well. We find two more larger gas cans and drain what little fuel is left in our wrecked truck into them, leaving just the skeleton of old ruined Bob sitting in the hanger. We hardly got to know him, but he carried us a long ways. Rest In Peace Bob-The-Truck.

We load the gear quickly, taking only a few extra moments to spray paint over the emblems on the doors of our two new trucks, Abbot and Costello. We now have even more guns and ammo. Surprisingly, we find two grenades on one of the dead guys that Shaun dropped with his silenced sniping rifle. So we get the trucks started. Shaun takes the one with the wheels and the fuel. I'm driving the other. Dodger stays in back with Banksy. We need to get to Novo, quickly. We need a doctor. He may not be seriously hurt, or he may have something internal hurt, we don't know, and we need a doctor to be sure. These days, any injury can be fatal.

 

Shaun tells us he heard there was a doctor still trying to help survivors at Svetlojarsk. It is Northeast of us, but we have to do what we have to do. I ask Shaun to lead, and together, we race off to Svetlojarsk as best possible speed. We can't take the roads, Roberts' men are checking them, stopping anything. So we head through the woods, trying to make the ride as smooth as we can, but I worry, crying most of the way, I am so afraid.


	6. Hellfire

A Survivors Story Chapter 6  
Chapter 6  
Hell Fire

Hours later, the weather takes a turn for the worse. The once clear sunny skies darken, rapidly overcast. The windshield becomes soupy with the massive drops and the windshield wipers are next to worthless. I pull over and Dodger helps me to get Banksy into the cab. She gets in as well, holding him so that he doesn't slump over against the side window or the dashboard. I start moving again. Shaun continues to lead the way around the now muddy trails that pass for a road in Chenarus.

I glance over at Banksy from time to time, making sure he still breaths. He hasn't said anything, groaned a few times, since the shootout. Dodger assures me it is just the painkillers he is on. I am not convinced and push the accelerator a bit, causing Shaun to go faster so we do not run into him. We are a blur in the now darkening afternoon. It is quickly approaching evening and we are all hungry, tired and ready to pull over, but that is not happening. Even as I see brake lights from Shaun's truck, I am reluctant to slow, only coming to a sliding halt because there is no way to go around him. Ahead, I see what looks like the whole damn village, all zombies, all walking towards us.

Shaun looks back at us through the back window of his truck. I motion for him to move up a bit to where the path widens. He does, I believe, knowing what I am about to do. I can see he isn't wanting to try it, but I no longer care. I floor the pedal and the old truck coughs and sputters to life, the wheels spinning in the soupy mud as it struggles to gain traction. We are speeding up, heading straight for them.

I tell Dodger to hold on as we come down a sleight slope, slamming into the first of the gangling mass. I hear the cries of the zombies, feel them slamming into the front of the truck. It slows as more and more are rammed. We dive straight into the hoard, driving into them like a scalpel into flesh. Blood sprays onto the windshield and across the hood and doors. Limbs are torn asunder, severed and tumble along with bodies, both intact and partial. I focus on the far end, slowing but never stopping. I downshift. The truck make a furious roar, surging forward again with renewed vigor. The waves of zombies once again tries to slow us, tries to stop us so they can have their revenge. Dodger screams in shock, she did not expect this from me.

Behind me, Shaun also forces his truck through the mass. With ours on point, creating a slot, his can easily make it and I feel him pushing our truck with the bumper of his. We are like a freight train. We simply can not be stopped. We surge forward, now with pieces of zombie becoming jammed into any portion of the truck that would hold it. It is a grotesque visage, something from the bowels of hell. Thankfully, the driving rain makes the worst of it run off, leaving a sickening red trail behind us. The mud turns dark with the sheer amount of blood spilled, but it is their blood, that of the monsters, not ours. They will not claim him. He will not die because they own this land. I will not allow that.

The end of the huge mass is in sight. We are slow, frighteningly slow. Both trucks together are surging, but our wheels are sliding on the slick pathway, up the hill, through dozens of dead. We continue to push. Finally getting through, both trucks separate, Shaun letting his get some air, ours too needing some, but the entire front is well blocked up.

We drive on, the temperature gauge climbing higher. After a good quarter mile, we do pull over. It is a disgusting chore, but it is necessary. I must clear the front of the truck, to allow the radiator to get air over it. So I do, I pull over.

Dodger is worried about me. I understand her concern. Shaun also seems to be uneasy at this demonstration. They grow increasingly more alarmed as I lock the bayonet on the end of my rifle and use it to pry off the pieces of zombie from the front end. For me, it is just so much useless debris. I have ceased to think of the zombies as people. They once were, I know, but they no longer are. People would not do the things I have seen them do. They have become something else. I have no mercy for them, mercy is killing them. They no longer have feelings. They have no fear, no mercy, no love. They know only their desire to feed, to kill. There is nothing more to them. I treat them as nothing more than that. So I hack away at the debris till the front looks clear. Then I get back in, Shaun does as well, as he had gotten out to watch my back. Together we start off. I drive slowly at first, till I see the temperature gauge start to make its way back down to the normal mark.

We crest a hill, the sun is now crossing into later evening. We have been traveling quite a while, and now we are tempted to either turn the headlights on or to camp for the night. Seeing Banksy so immobile, I am not willing to pull over. Instead I insist that I will go on even if the rest of them stay behind. In the end, they relent and we proceed slowly, with the dim lights on.

Dodger and Shaun seem to understand how important this is to me and are helpful. Between the two, they keep Banksy awake enough to ensure he doesn't slip off where we can't wake him. He isn't too thrilled with the arrangement but he isn't in much condition to do anything about it.

We push ahead another three hours until the glow on the horizon stops us. It is very dark out, but ahead it looks like the city is all lit up. Considering there is no power to anywhere in Chenarus, that means the city is either on fire, or there are lots of fires burning. The fact that it is so well lit tells us all we need to know. Roberts is there, and so are his men. They are leaving no escape route. He knows we will either have to go through here or back through the town by the airstrip. There is no other way through to Novomitrovsk. Hoping that they don't have their pickets out this far, we park the trucks, concealing them as best as we can, while dispatching a half dozen zombies in the process. They actually help us out a bit. We prop them up on pieces of tree branch and hope that if Roberts' men come this far out, they might see the zombies and shoot. That will give Dodger warning and she might be able to take them out before they discover Banksy and the trucks.

Shaun, meanwhile, heads down into Svetlojarsk to see how many troops are there, and if he can distract them. Dodger is too well known by Roberts' troops, so if she were to go along, they would most definitely recognize her. That leaves me. I volunteer to be the one to find and retrieve the doctor, if indeed, there is one to be found. At this point, we have come so far, through such adversity, I refuse to believe that it would go wrong at this point. I just refuse that.

The jog to Svetlojarsk takes the better part of an hour. By now it is full on pouring. We are both soaked, shivering, and Shaun seems to be just fine, but I am getting tired. Gymnastics has kept me strong, fit, but my endurance has not been quite what it used to be since I quit. I regret now, those mornings I decided not to get up to go running. I regret the snickers bars, I regret the wine coolers, I regret not having boots that were more comfortable for walking miles.

Out side the town, Shaun leaves me. He heads in smiling and waving. Part of me wants to not trust him, but if he was going to screw us over, he could have taken me down, tied me up, and handed me over to them already. He seems to have his own reasons for wanting Roberts to fail. Or maybe for us to succeed. I have no idea. I only care about getting that doctor.

It is around midnight when I start to sneak in. I am not brave like the others. I admit that. I was never a soldier, never had it in me. So instead of trying to get in by force I crawl over to a bush. It takes me a little work, but I pull it from the wet soil and hold it in front of me, slowly edging around the lit areas where Roberts' guards are watching. My blue and white cammies are soaked and dark now with mud and blood from earlier cleaning off zombie bits, so I rather blend in well with the ground and this bush I'm holding. Who knew, I have a talent for sneakery?

Getting in would be the easy part. Finding the doctor, that will be harder. Getting him out of here, that will be the hardest part. I am still working on that part as I reach the side of the first building on the edge of the little community. It is a wooden structure, completely ruined. All the windows are busted out, the doors have been kicked in and it was well looted. The paint looks as if it was due to be scraped and repainted a decade ago, with much of it flaked off and wood rot from the constant Chenarus rains, starting to eat away at it. In short, its typical of much of Chenarus. This whole country looks as if it was left behind in the 1960's at best.

I pull out my knife and start to pry at the wood panels on the wall until they come loose with a little bit of a creak. In this driving rain, the sound barely carries, so I continue until I have the hole large enough for me to slip inside. Then I half pull them back into place, tugging the bush against the outside to at least try to hide the gap. The temptation to tarry, just enough to warm up, is strong, but I have Banksy's life riding on my shoulders. I have to keep pushing myself to go on.

Shaun has met a couple of the guys he had known earlier. They discuss the situation, while Shaun pretends he was heading towards the coast, possibly Berezino. They seem to accept that and he gets them to gather around one of the many barrels with a fire built in it. They warm around the fire, trading stories, mostly bullshit stories they make up to out do each other, like guys do. Through it all, he is slowly pumping them for information. He is good at this and they do not suspect anything. The guy has a gift of gab, and the training to make that work in his favor. I envy that. I have always been awkward around other people. I have what we French call “bottom stair wisdom.” Which, if you do not happen to be French, means, I never know quite what to say until it is far too late, but then I think of the perfect reply.

Meanwhile, Dodger is having her own troubles. As hoped, the zombies do indeed give her time to react. While I am tugging at that bush, Dodger hears the sound of a 9mm. It fires several shots into the corpse of the zombie, knocking it down. She hushes Banksy, who is trying to say something. That is a good sign, I would think, were I there.

Dodger slips off the bed of the truck, taking the silenced MP5K and the silenced 9mm Banksy carries, and starts to make her way forward, towards the sounds of gunfire. Again she hears is as the gunman fires at another of the zombie sentinels. Dodger drops to the ground, rolling into a bush. Moments after, a figure rounds the trees ahead of her. He looks down at the dead zombie, confused. It made no sound, like the first. It is possible he is catching on. She can not take the risk, and fires the silenced 9mm pistol at his head. The first shot goes a bit wide and all he hears is the hiss of the round go by. As he is turning his head to look, a reaction that we all have, the second shot hits him just below the nose. He drops silently into the mud. Dodger gets up, scrambling over to his body and drags him under some brush. It is a very good thing she did, as three more men start in her direction. If she had left him laying there, it would be over. Instead, she raises the MP5K and opens up on them. In the driving rain, none of them hear the silenced sub-machine gun. Fortunately, that means anyone else around does not either. For Dodger, it just means, more bodies to hide. She checks them over, finding some trinkets, ammo, batteries, some random bits of food and of course, the usual equipment. She spends the next hour and a half stowing their equipment in the growing pile in the back of the truck, while searching for more of Roberts' troops. Chances are, this was just an outer picket. They will be missed eventually, but with no way of knowing where they were killed, the search will be slow and may not cover the right area till well after we are gone. For all we know, they could be bandits, driven out of Svetlojarsk by Roberts' crew.

Once in the little community, I slip from door to door, trying the handles. Finally I feel one turn and carefully open it enough to peek inside. It is dark. That means whoever might be inside is probably asleep. I close the door and walk to the side, looking in the window. I see three people, laying on mattresses on the hard wood floor. They are covered by many blankets, but they look very warm. Oh what I would give to be under some warm blankets, safe and dry, right now. I am not a hero.

The fact the house is occupied makes me rethink that plan. If I were to go in there, I would only be endangering them, and they seem like they just want to be left alone. Fair enough. I sneak around back, seeing where their laundry would be. Thankfully, they had brought it in when the weather turned. I pull a blanket off the pile and pull it around me. Oh its a little bit warmer. It breaks the breeze that has me shivering. Most of all, the dark color makes me harder to see in the night. I take my helmet off and clip it to my belt, picking up a hat that is lying on their back porch. It is wet, but what isn't? I put it on, feeling the cold rain down my neck and back. I have to bite my lip to not cry out. Oh damn that is cold!

Dodger slips back under the tarp and pulls the blankets back up around Banksy. He blinks a few times, smiling at her in his drugged stupor. She smiles back, brushing some hair from his beautiful face. Her hands seem tender at times like this. Even though she probably knows a dozen ways to snap someones neck with her bare hands, she is a gentle as a kitten with him. She gives him some still warm coffee. She has kept it warm with a heating pack. It is not what you would call hot coffee. It would barely be considered warm, but in this cold, bitter rain it is wonderful. He sips it with her help, swallowing the coffee on his own. That is a good sign.

Shaun sees me making my way past a bunch of parked trucks. He starts in on one of his more raunchy stories, involving a girl he “once knew.” Knowing Shaun as well as I have come to know him, I would put even money that its at least partially true. Roberts' men gather a bit closer as he gets quieter, a tactic that forces them to get closer to hear. Smart move, it gives me the little edge I need to squeeze by. However, there are a few obstacles still in my way.

I slip past the parking area they set up, but see the command area. It is between me and the medical tent. Unfortunately, to get to the tent, I have to go past that. Otherwise, I would be on the wrong side of a very tall wall, that I am too short to scale, and it it far too slippery to climb. I cower under the back of a truck, trying to figure a way through when I realize, they are next to a partially collapsed building. There is a ceiling beam that I can get to. It looks to be a four inch by four inch beam, typical of most homes that are reasonably well built. It is perfect for me. I grin, knowing that I can do this.

Shaun is coming to one of the juicy bits of his story when he sees me sprint out, running up the beam. He forces himself to not look directly at me, that would only make the others look too. Instead he gets to the raunchy part of the story, embellishing it to keep their attention.

I run up the beam. It is as wide as a balance beam in gymnastics, so for me it is actually not that hard. I am used to the weight of my equipment, having worn it now for several days, and even the rain and my boots do not make it too much a challenge. Once at the end, I jump, grabbing the support bar to the patio that still hangs, partially, on what was the second story. I am now out of Shaun's sight so he can provide no further cover for me. I am on my own.  
I pull a board from the broken porch, over to the edge and slide it till it is on top of the huge outer wall of the medical area. Then I simply walk over it, crouched low, till I get to the wall, where I drop down inside the medical area itself. To my left is the gate where the command team are still on their walkie talkies, coordinating their teams, and reporting back to Roberts' base.

I cross over to the medical building, called the medical tent, for some reason I do not know. It is an actual building, properly so. At least in my opinion it is. Still, the military have their own descriptions for things. A door is a bulkhead, a door a hatch, whatever.

I walk to the window closest to me and see the room inside is lit by chemical lights. The whole place is lit, fairly well, by them. There are a few injured people inside, but mostly it is sick patients. I see three nurses, two male, one female, attending them. Then I see him, the doctor. He is at a desk, reading some medical books, probably trying to figure out the latest sickness that seems to be going around.

I go to the side door, letting myself in. It is warm in here, I did not expect that. Of course, it is, hospitals would not be freezing. So I pause to stop shivering, and I find some jackets that were hung up in back with the supplies I am standing near. Then I walk, as if I know what I am doing, to the door the doctor's desk set is in. I knock twice as I open the door, giving him the “shhhhhh” sign with my finger in front of my lips. He starts to get up but sees that and sits down, his face mixed with confusion and fear. I must look horrific, but I have no time to waste.

I slowly walk to him, hands where he can see them. “English?” I ask. He shakes his head no. “French?” I ask, in French. He smiles nodding. Of course, a French doctor, what could be better? I also smile. “Doctor, I am Ellie, and I need your help, to save a man's life.” I say in a whisper. He nods, motioning me to come closer. “He is hidden outside the community, Roberts' men, they would kill us if they knew. I need for you to come with me, to where he is, and help him. He fell down some stairs and hit his head. Can you help us?” I say pleading with my eyes. I am crying, yes, and they are true genuine tears.

“I can help your friend, yes, but how do we get out of here?” he says motioning at the troops outside. I nod, handing him his jacket. It is a very good question, one I have been asking since I got in here, but I can not tell him that. He slips his big raincoat on as well as a perfectly reasonable rain hat. I suddenly envy him for his hat. I would really like that hat.

“I have a plan, but it will mean you have to trust me.” I say bluffing. I have no plan. Still, he smiles, and I can tell, he likes the idea of a little rebellious adventure. That's the spirit, la resistance! We slip out the back, past the busy nurses. They look up and see us but say nothing. Whatever the doctor is doing is his own business. Perks of being one of the last doctors on Earth. The lucky son of a bitch.

We walk around the far side of the medical area and I notice there is a motorcycle laying against the building. I have actually rode a motorcycle before. In fact, I rode one quite a while. So yea, it was not exactly a motorcycle, but more of a scooter, but how hard could it be? I go to it, testing the ignition. The batter is low, but it could start, maybe. I tap the gas tank, it is almost empty, but it should have enough to get us to Banksy. I grin as I turn to him. “We will fly.” I say getting on the bike. The doctor looks dubious as he gets on back. “Just hold on very, very tight.” He does and I reconsider having added the second 'very' to my request. He is older, perhaps in his fifties, but he is in remarkable shape. His hair is dark but receding, and his face is covered in some stubble of a three day growth. I suppose he is quite busy, and the lack of facilities makes shaving difficult to do properly, because it seems few men I see are clean shaven anymore.

I start the bike, it misses and sputters then finally the motor rumbles under us. I select the first gear and we start forward with a jerk. Hey, first time on a real motor cycle. We do start, and get rolling as Roberts' men start to come into the medical area. We roar past them towards the road block they set up. I take a deep breath, hoping I am at least partially as clever as I hope I am.  
The roadblock is designed to prevent vehicles from coming from the other direction. To that end, the sandbags are stacked to form a slope, forming a wall on the opposing side, and this side being more of a grade. It makes it somewhat effective only if the vehicle you are trying to stop, happens to be coming from the direction the wall side is aimed at. In this case, it is not so effective.

A few men start to raise their rifles, but their commanders order them to lower them, they can not risk shooting the only doctor in Chenarus, or at least the only own in this area, willing to treat Roberts' men. They hold fire, as we race past and hit the pile of sandbags. The bike bounces harshly up, nearly jerking the handle bars from my hands as I am shifting again. Third gear and we are going so fast, when we reach the top of the stack, we are airborne for quite a distance. I whoop in delight as we fly over the barbed wire rolled in front of the sandbags. It is working! Then gravity decides to crash the party and we start to drop.

The additional weight of the doctor on the back brings the bike down back wheel first, which saves us. Had it been just myself, I would have crashed. His additional weight brings us down properly and we land with a bounce, wobbling a bit, but racing off out the barriers and into the darkness. I am laughing, but realize too late, they will just come after us with their trucks... except they have flat tyres. Oh yea, did I forget to mention that? My knife is good for more than prying wood from the sides of buildings. It seems to also do well at slicing the valve stems of tyres. I'm sorry, next time I will not leave out small details like that. I just thought maybe you were more interested in what Dodger was up to.

Behind me I can hear the ruckus, over the putter of the little motorbikes engine. Then I shift again and we go a bit faster, disappearing into the darkness around a corner. The doctor is laughing in my ear. Apparently this is one hell of an adventure, and he is loving it immensely.

 

We arrive at the trucks not long after, and needless to say, Dodger has a whole new respect for me. After I see Banksy, I also respect Dodger more.


	7. Parting Of The Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group splits up

A Survivors Story Chapter 7  
Chapter 7  
Parting Ways

That night, we move out. The doctor rides with Banksy, I drive, slowly North. Dodger keeps watch, her Steyr at the ready. At the doctors insistence, we drive past Novo. He tells us of a safe city, where nobody is allowed guns, and the walls are high enough, thick enough, and guarded day and night. The city is called Sanctuary. It is a week and a half North, on a hard drive.

The doctor keeps Banksy stable, not letting him up for more than a few minutes. The swelling is starting to go down by the time we get close. Still, he believes Banksy will need a few months of careful watching, in case there was a fracture to his neck. He also makes it clear, only people with valuable skills are welcome in Sanctuary. I understand what that means. The drive is quiet. Dodger says little, there is little to be said.

We pass towns, sneaking along as best we can. The gas cans grow empty as we refuel until there is nothing left, then keep pushing on, with the last tankful. Our food grows short, then we start to ration it. I simply go without. The days seem to pass in a sort of dreary blur. By the time we arrive, I am exhausted and feel a mix of both elation, and profound sorrow.

Thankfully, the trip was uneventful. The doctor knew this area fairly well, and kept us from the majority of trouble, and what little trouble seemed intent on finding us, Dodger spotted and guided us away. But the real test was now, here, at the gate. The guards stop us, signaling to the guards on the wall, in their machine gun nests, to watch us. They use flame throwers to clear out the few zombies that seem to have assembled before us, then we pull to where they signal for us to disembark the vehicle. We all do as instructed.

The doctor is well met with welcoming smiles and handshakes. He explains to them how he was rescued from captivity, and that in return, he wishes to attend to Banksy in Sanctuary. Dodger shows her own credentials, and the three of them are admitted. I watch the truck pull into the gates and see Banksy propped up in the back so he can wave... goodbye.  
It is the last time I ever see him. I wave goodbye, then nod to Dodger. We had somehow come to the agreement that she would take care of him now. Appropriately, it begins to rain. I am glad it does. The drops hide the tears that refuse to stay at bey, and I fake a smile. Goodbye my love. Our brief time together was sweet, and you reminded me of something I forgot long ago, how to love.

The gates close and I turn and walk off, back into the night. Somewhere out there, I will find my way. At least I know that Banksy and Dodger will survive this nightmare. They have found Sanctuary. So I walk South, back towards the last known location of this scientist. If there is a solution, some kind of answer, it must lie with him. I have no idea what I can possibly do to help this world. Maybe it is beyond help. I am no hero. I am not brave, or skilled. I have no special abilities that will make any difference, yet, I am alive. I suppose that means, there may yet be a purpose to my existence. Maybe, somehow, I play a role in this horror story. The only way I will ever discover that answer, is to keep walking.

I walk for three days before I come to the first signs of civilization, since leaving Sanctuary. It is a small town called Belaya Polana. It seems to be nothing more than a tiny suburb of Novomitrovsk, yet it is far enough away to escape the grasp of the Gents. The streets are deserted. Even the dead do not inhabit this little village. The buildings are spread out among fields. The small gathering of simple buildings that make up the town proper, are old and well worn by ages of cold and rain. I find little among them to live on, just some old cans of beans and some water from a well. I make myself a place to sleep in one of the houses, a small fire in the rusty stove heats my room. Life is a series of hard choices. Banksy needed help, the kind that only the doctors could provide. I could have insisted on not going to Sanctuary, but whatever would have happened to him, would have been my fault. So we went. That is what you do when you love someone. Sometimes you have to let them go. The last three days, I had spent crying, walking, and just coming to terms with my decisions. By now, I am sure he realizes what happened, but it is far too late. Dodger will ensure he stays there, gets the care he needs. In return, they will protect Sanctuary, provide what intelligence they have about the plague, and whatever else they can. Sanctuary has a policy. Once you are a citizen, you are always a citizen. If you are refused, do not return. So it is done. I come to accept that as I lay by the fire. It is done. It can not be undone.

The next morning is overcast and very warm and humid. I wear just my tee shirt and camouflage pants under my backpack. I turn due West, going by the tip the doctor gave me. The scientist, he believed, was being held by Russian forces, at a small military base somewhere between Nagorno and Kamensk. Between here and there I might have to dodge around a few towns like Dobroe, Karmanovka and a suburb of Novomitrovsk called Smirnovo. That also means I will be going through some very heavily infested land, with all the zombies that have been forced out of Novomitrovsk. I top off my canteens and gather up a box of crackers I find behind a cupboard that was knocked over in a scuffle. The crackers are stale and tasteless, but they offer at least some small nourishment. These days, you eat whatever you can find.

The best I can tell, by this old map, I have about a kilometer to cover before I come to Dobroe. I take a slow pace, walking about half speed. I feel reluctant to leave, somehow, leaving this dirty little house makes my departure from Banksy more final. I know that the finality of it was days ago. The moment we arrived at the gates, the clock had run out.

I blink the tears out of my eyes, trying to put the memories of his smile out of my head. I miss riding along in the truck, looking over at him as he drove. I miss seeing him smile back, his gentle laugh, the way he would reach over and squeeze my hand. It made this nightmare somehow bearable. I find myself often touching my arm where he would rest his hand. When I allow myself to feel at all, it seems the world itself rises up against me. The land seems to go up, hill after hill. The humidity is oppressive, and the heat seems to just be relentless. I know that I must drink, but I press on, knowing that if I go through my canteens too quickly, I will be without anything, and I have no idea how long it may be until I find something else to drink. The rains that come and go are light enough and short enough, to simply make things miserable, and not enough to do anything more then make my clothes wet. That makes it impossible to get cool, sweating does not help at all. There is almost no breeze, and what there is, serves only to tease with a momentary cool breath on my skin.

Finally I stumble onto a footpath. It looks as if I am the last visitor it has seen in ages older than myself. The ruts where wagons once passed, are overgrown with weeds, the middle part taller than the rest. It is only recognizable as a path by the sections of collapsing fence that someone once attempted to erect along it at points. I follow it for the better part of a day, finally stumbling upon the only other visitor it has seen, laying face down in the trampled weeds of a rut. They have died only days ago. I immediately crouch down and take cover behind some brush. The chances are, nobody is here to witness this, but just in case, I creep carefully to the rotting corpse. It smells and is bloated. I can see the maggots have already found the flesh. I hold my breath as I pull at the backpack they wore. It takes some doing, but I finally get it off the stiff body. I had to cut the straps. Inside I find a couple cans of peaches, a gas mask, a pack of water purification tablets, and a notebook. The rest looks to have been looted, rather quickly, or perhaps this is all this guy escaped with.

I retreat back a few dozen meters, not wishing to be near the stench of the body. I make a little padded area from a pile of pine needles, and lay down on them. It is getting too hot to do anything more and I am so tired, I just want to lay here. So I lay down and rest, laying my head down on my pack and closing my eyes.

It is dark when I awake. I do not remember falling asleep, but I guess I needed it. The stars are visible up above. So I lay back and stare up at them letting my thoughts run. They seem so far away, yet so close. I wonder if there is someone out there, watching this all play out. Are we alone in the darkness? I remember some of my university teaching, about the Fermi Paradox. Basically, if there IS life out there, why have we not heard from it? It boils down into three arguments, which are, We, intelligent life, are rare, or we are simply the first of our kind, or, we are fucked. According to the Fermi Paradox, there must be some kind of great filter. Either civilizations can not break past it to a higher way of living, or we are one of the first to have made it this far... or, increasingly, I am led to believe, the last of the options, which is, we are doomed. If the last option holds true, it would explain this outbreak. At some point, all intelligent civilizations meet some grand event, that wipes them out, or reduces them back to a stage that they are no longer capable of spreading out among the stars. Perhaps, this virus, this plague, this apocalypse, is the great filter. Maybe all life forms meet this challenge, or it is presented upon them by another species. Perhaps, there is some superior race out there, that wishes to remain superior, and visits this plague upon the younger races, testing them to see who among them may be worthy, or worse, ensuring they never gain the ability to one day challenge that superiority.

Intelligent species would go through three stages of technology. Stage one would be harnessing all the power of the home planet. We, as humans, never really attained that level, at best estimates, we were about .7. That is pretty good, for a primitive warlike species. However, if a species were to attain level one, the next level would be to harness the power of its home solar system. That would be impossible for us, at our best, but had we attained full level one status, we might have been capable of it in a few thousand years. Then there is stage three. Harnessing the power of the home galaxy. We can not possibly imagine that, yet, it stands to reason, it would be the next goal of a technological species that had existed, somehow, for millions, perhaps billions, of years. Surely at that point, they would have surpassed biological life forms, and become somehow energy beings, perhaps digitized into some kind of cosmic matrix.

The math says that surely at least one species in our galaxy has done so. If even a single percentage of stars we see, and that is very few in the galaxy we are in, have Earth like planets, then even if only a percentage of those have intelligent life, there would be more inhabited planets than grains of sand on the entire planet. That is just in the part of our galaxy we can see. Now, imagine the number of planets beyond what we can see, and you get an idea of how many species there potentially must be out there. And Earth only cooled and started evolving life forms fairly recently. So there are potentially life forms out there billions of years older than we are. The potential is, at least one of them could have reached stage two, or three. If so, why have we not heard from them? Are they listening to us? Are they trying to decide if we were worth it? Perhaps they are in contact, but not in a way we understand. Perhaps there is nothing out there at all. Or perhaps, no other species has ever made it past the great filter. Maybe this outbreak is impossible to defeat. What if it visits itself upon all species, wiping them out before they ever attain stage one? Then truly, we were doomed from the start. Perhaps that is the only truth that any of us will ever find among the dead that now inhabit the Earth.

I roll over, looking down the hill towards Dobroe. I see the light of fires off in the distance. The amount of light is too bright for simple torches, Dobroe is on fire. The city is burning. Why would someone burn a town? I wait until the sun creeps up over the horizon, then walk back to the rotting corpse. It is hard to tell, but there does not seem to be any obvious injuries. I go back through the equipment, then notice the gas mask again. Why would someone bring a gas mask? I crouch back in the brush, drinking some water and reading the notebook, which, amazingly, is in French.

He was a UNSCOM inspector. Apparently they were looking into a tip about a Russian chemical weapons lab somewhere in the area. I suppose he found it. The chemical apparently was a greenish gas that was much like Mustard Gas. It burned the lungs, and once inhaled, the clock was running out on the victim. I guess he breathed some and this is as far as he got. I would bury him, but I lack any means to do so, and with much regret, I wish him to rest, then consider my options.

I decide to test the mask. It appears to be intact, not leaking from any holes. I adjust it to fit, which is does, reasonably. I suppose, I will have to chance going through the area. Perhaps, the fire I see, is the attempt by him, and others, perhaps, to destroy the chemicals. If so, I hope they were successful. If not, I hope I can get the mask on before I suffer his fate.

I decide to keep the gas mask handy, so I hang it around my neck and walk towards the town. By now, the sun is up, and I can see the smoke. I suppose I could have seen it yesterday, but the haze from the humidity was low, making the distance obscure. Today it is much more clear, though no less hot. The humidity is not as bad, but there is still no breeze, which, now that I think about it, is a good thing. I walk along the path, keeping my eyes peeled for movement. Along the road, I start to see the carcasses of animals. I pull the gas mask on, the sweat really starts to gather on my face. It is so hot, so uncomfortable. I want to drink, but I dare not risk raising the mask. I am hungry, but I dare not take it off to eat. I decent the hill I had been walking up all yesterday, into a valley. The dead carcasses are more numerous, all with contorted bodies, tongues protruding from mouths. I continue, feeling a film on my arms now. I look down seeing a green tint to the perspiration. As I enter the town, I see the first of the corpses. They also wear the uniforms of the UNSCOM team. There are at least a dozen of them, they seem assembled around a truck. I would guess they were attempting to load up to leave. I pass it by, looking at where they were moving equipment from, and see the source of the burning. The entire next block is charred and smoldering. There are what looks like soldiers bodies in the ruins, but it is hard to tell. Even with my gas mask, it is hard to breath. The smoke is thick and the air is heavy with it. My arms burn a little from the green film. I go to a well, pumping a bit of water out, then wash my arms off, taking my jacket out and putting it on, though it is so very hot wearing it, the burning stops, and that is good enough.

I want no part of this, so I keep walking past, through the town, and off to the far end. As I leave the town behind me, I feel the burn on my head, where it is not protected by the mask, as well as my hands. I feel like passing out, it is so hot, and I am so dehydrated. I think back on the guy I discovered first. Did he also feel this way, and take off his mask too soon? I worry about it, so I decide to not make the same mistake. Instead, I get well away, till my wobbly legs can no longer sustain me. With much fatigue, I collapse by the bank of a tiny pond. I roll over into it, letting the water engulf me until I sink to the bottom.

 

I sit up, taking off my clothes. Once naked, I strip off the mask, getting to the surface, I take my much needed breath. I guess if I was too early, then I will not last long, but I feel no burning in my chest. My clothes are saturated with the gas, so I figure the water is now tainted too. However, I needed to get it off me, and cool down quickly, I was well overheated. I fish my backpack off the bottom, opening it and taking out the canteens and canned goods. I wash off my rifle and little machine gun with some water, then drink the other entirely. Everything in my pack is most likely ruined, so I leave it all behind, carrying just my guns, ammo, and the canteens and three cans of food, in my arms. I check my compass and head mostly South, towards Karmanovka. I will need clothing, some kind of carry bag, and water. That town is my only hope. If it too is destroyed, I will die. I am already dehydrated badly. I have sweat out the water in my body already, and am panting dryly. I half stagger, half stumble, into the outskirts of Karmanovka at the end of the day. It is downhill, so I was able to make better time, however, once I arrive, I see it is fully occupied by the dead. I put down everything in the world I own, and take only my silenced machine gun. In a world gone insane, a naked girl with a machine gun is taking on a town of dead. Somehow, in the insanity that my life has become, this almost makes sense.


	8. On My Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better off dead

A Survivors Story Chapter 8  
Chapter 8  
On My Own

The trail into Karmanovka is rough. Years of use have packed the dirt into an almost concrete like surface through which the grass seems incapable to find purchase. It is hard on my sore feet. By the time I am within proximity of the first of the many dwellings, my feet are bruised. I feel the strain on my back from crouching low. The sun has surely burned my back, and the humidity and oppressive heat have sapped what meager reserves I had.

I collapse against the side of an ill fated escape vehicle. The skeletons of the occupants inside smile at me with their sickening twisted faces. I squat, my back against the fender, and feel the tears rush upon my cheeks. I try not to imagine this is the fate of my family. Please do not let this be how my mother and father died. I make fists so tight my nails cut into my palms, trying to hold back the tears. My nose refuses to cooperate with me and runs making more mess upon my already dirt encrusted lips and chin. I'm trying not to make noise, but its hard. The pain comes welling up like emotional fists, punching at me, demanding release. This is not the time. I have to be strong. Banksy or Dodger would never be like this. I can't let it out, not here, not now. I need to press on. I am in danger here.

I slowly lift the door handle of the back door, it opens with a soft groan. Inside are a couple bags. One is covered with roses and vines on the fabric. I bet its the ladies. It probably contains some clothing, which I sorely need. I reach in and fumble for the handle, then draw back as the woman inside turns and reaches to grab my arm. She pulls at my arm with a strength I was not expecting. I yank my arm back but she is stronger and starts to pull me in. The man also turns and starts to grab at me. I see their mouths opening and closing, they are going to kill me. This is how I am going to die!

She manages to pull my arm in up to my shoulder, my hand is dangerously close to her, if she was not strapped into her seat, she could have already pulled me in and likely begun eating upon my hand at least. I reach back with my other arm, my little machine gun has fallen over, I can't reach it. I feel my foot hit it, knocking it under the back of the car. She lunges at me and manages to nearly get my fingers. I close my hand, trying to protect my fingers. Meanwhile I wedge my legs against the door frame, using my leg muscles to push back, my stronger legs manage to gain me several inches back. Then the man grabs her arms and starts to pull. Immediately the progress I made is reversed and I am nearly hauled into the car with them. My heart is pounding and I start to panic so much I can not think clearly. I feel a terrified surge of strength, but it is useless against them. They have me, and I am being pulled into their car.

She bites at me again, nearly getting my knuckles. He also snaps his mouth at me, but he is nearly a foot further in. I yank and tug and push with my legs, crying now in terror. The sound of my struggle seems to feed their hunger and they start to snap their mouths open and shut over and over. Then he yanks so hard it makes my bare foot slip off the edge of the door frame. However, his yank also severs her arms from the elbows forward. He is holding her arms behind the elbows, and her hands and forearms are still clamped to my arm, but I fall back, out of the vehicle. They both start to frenzy, she is thrashing all over, making so much noise, I am afraid every zombie in Chenarus must be alerted to this. He also is thrashing around nearly tearing himself free from the bent steering wheel that pins him to the seat where it impaled him in the chest.

I roll to my side, getting to my knees. Her hands finally release my arm and her arms fall to the ground. I kick them away and reach under the car to get my sub-machine gun. This fight has caused enough noise, a few rounds will not matter now. I fire a couple into their heads, then grab the bag and start to run.

I hear the howls of zombies coming from both sides of the dwelling I am behind. I am trapped. I can not turn back, they will chase me back into the poisoned land, and I no longer have the gas mask. I can not dodge to either side, they will cover the ground before I can get past. I stop looking back and forth... hiding place... hiding place! I tug at the trunk, it is locked. Damn it! I consider crawling into the car and closing the door, but the back window will not keep them out. I turn back to the building, then run forward to it, throwing my gun at the window closest to me, smashing it as I arrive. My gun goes through, leaving just the jagged remains on the edges. As I make it to the window, the zombies have turned the corners on both sides of the dwelling. They see me clearly, hear my breathing, I am sure they can hear my heart pounding. I look around and find a rusted old pipe. There is no way I can hold off at least five zombies with it, so I turn and break out the remaining glass with it. I throw it at the closest zombie, but it does no good. I turn and crawl into the window as they close.

I manage to land on my back, feeling some of the broken glass cut my arm and shoulder, but I can not worry about that right now. They are at the window, swiping at me, trying to get to me. I roll to the side, on my hands and knees, feeling around till I grab the strap of my gun. I half stumble, half run towards the door on the far wall. Outside I hear the howls of the zombies getting very loud. There must be a dozen at least. I could not hope to kill them all with just what I have on me. I tug at the door handle, but it is locked. I gather the gun into my hands and aim it at the handle, firing a few rounds till it opens. I pull it open and see more zombies pouring into the place from the open front door. They now have nothing to stop them from coming in here after me. I should have left it shut. I look and see another door on the side. I rush to it, turning the knob. It opens, inside are the remains of a child, it looks as if she crawled in here to hide, and eventually died. I shoot her in the head then grab her hair and tug her out of the closet, leaving her body still twitching on the floor. Fucking zombies! I get into the closet and shut the door, holding the handle so it does not turn. Then I hear the hoard burst into the room. The are loud, I can hear them sniffing, trying to smell me. They know I am in here, and pound at the door, but the solid wood of the door holds and they pound in vain for hours.

I hold the door knob for dear life, for what feels like forever, until it starts to grow quiet outside the door. I can see movement of shadows from the crack under the door, so I know they are still out there, at least a couple from the sounds.

It grows dark. They do not seem to be so animated when it gets dark. I have heard that their vision is poor. During the day, they can see perhaps ten meters, roughly. At night, they can hardly see at all. However, they can hear very well. I know they also have a keen sense of smell. However, with so many of them in the room, all smelling of rot, my own scent was probably lost. I had stayed quiet for hours, so the majority lost interest, perhaps unaware of why they even came here to begin with. Nobody is sure if zombies possess any ability to remember anything. They do not seem to. I have to leave this closet, or I will die like that girl. I slowly turn the knob and open the door. There are three of them and they turn and look at me. I raise the gun and fire. Two go down before the gun goes empty. I turn it around in my hands, holding it by the barrel, the hook of the shoulder stock pointed down, and I raise it above my head and swing, smashing the last one in the head with it. Her arms slam into my shoulders, knocking me back. She also stumbles back, the gun now wedged into her skull. She howls, then falls over. I stumble to my feet, grabbing my gun, then run back to the window. They are not outside, but I hear them in the adjoining room, now becoming quite animated. I roll back out the window, stumbling to my feet, putting distance between myself and the dwelling. Inside I see them now, looking out at me from the window. They are enraged, but incapable of getting to me. I know, however, they are fast, and surely they will once again, come running from around the sides of the place. I run back and grab the bag, then run behind the car. I crouch down, peeking over the boot as several come around the sides of the place, looking back and forth for whatever alerted the others. Thankfully they have no ability to remember anything, and do not bother to come all the way back over to the car. Without the noises of the two in the car to draw them here, they do not make the connection, and wander in circles for a while in the small patio area near the window.

I lean back against the car, catching my breath and trying to will my heart to slow and not pound out of my chest. It is getting darker, and I know it will cool off. Being undressed, I will soon start to shiver with the night temperature. I feel along my shoulder and feel tiny pieces of glass still in my shoulder. I pull them out, slowly, one by one. Thankfully none were very large. I feel along my side and arm, but thankfully there are none. I am bruised, bleeding, and trapped. My gun is empty, and I am going to freeze soon.

I peek back over the boot, they are starting to scatter again, their attention span is short. I wait for another half hour until they finally leave, then I open the bag and start to inventory the contents. What I find disappoints me. There is nothing here I can use, except some toiletries. Well, at least I have a bag, and I now know where to find what I need, but unfortunately, there are zombies in there.

I crouch low, staying in the shadows, edging to the window again. The zombies in the room have left it, joining the others out in front of the dwelling. Zombies do not seem to like being inside places. I suppose it messes with their ability to hunt. I slowly and quietly climb back into the window, avoiding the broken glass. Then I tip toe to the dresser on the far wall. It has pictures of the girl back when she was alive. She was very pretty, with blonde hair and light eyes. She looked like a very happy little girl, smiling for the camera, posing with a horse. I softly pull at the drawers until a few open, and find some under things to wear, then address the closet. Inside I find some jodhpurs and boots that actually fit fairly well. I select a fairly nice sweater, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I look like I am ready for a horse show, but it is the most practical outfit I can find. The rest look like dresses, skirts, shorts, and some jeans that do not stretch enough to fit. At least I am dressed. I search the room, finding her book bag. It is small, but it holds the toiletries and another shirt, a comb, and a letter opener that might be useful. I slip back out the window and crouch walk back to the car, scanning behind me to be sure nothing is following me. I then walk back to where I left my rifle and the few cans and can opener I left behind. I put them in the book bag, then the empty canteens, and find a place to hide while I try to figure out what to do next.

I need to drink. My mouth feels like it is full of cotton, and I think I stopped sweating. I am dehydrating, and it is so hot I am starting to get very dizzy. If I do not get something to drink soon, I might just pass out. I have no choice but to walk further along the tree line and find a new approach to the town. Dodger or Banksy wouldn't have had this much trouble just getting into a town, they did it all the time. I need to learn to get better at this, or I am going to die. I check the ammo in my rifle, then reload the sub-machine gun with the other magazine I was able to carry. At least they both will shoot now.

I find a well about seven houses down, but it looks old and may be the squeaky kind that will surely draw zombies. At night, I will not be able to see them until they are upon me, so I sit down, opening a can of peaches. I eat them, savoring the juice, gulping them down like I have not eaten in weeks. The juice helps me so much, but I know it is not enough. So I grab a hand full of pebbles and some dirt and grass. Then I put a layer of dirt on the bottom of the can, some grass, then the pebbles. Then I put some more grass on top, close the lid, then throw it as far away as I can. It flies quite a ways away, landing with a horrible racket, rattling and making all sorts of noise. The howls start immediately, and I lift handle slowly, pumping the well a few times masked by the noise of all the howling. Ha, Dodger, I did listen to your tales of adventure. This trick worked once for you against some bandits, and it worked for me against the zombies. Thank you Dodger!

The water flows and I fill my canteens first, putting them back into my book bag, then I put my head under, feeling it soak my hair and run down over my face. I know it is soaking my sweater, but right now that feels good. I cup my hands and begin to drink until the water stops. I have spent too much time in one place. Banksy always said, the key to survival in hostile territory, is to keep moving. I need to go, I have to leave this well. I can always come back.

I back away as the zombies are still prowling the area the can was at. They must be very hungry, all the running they have done tonight. I imagine right about now, they would love to tear me apart, even if they do not eat me, just to get back at me for running them all over the place. Oh well. You will not remember in a few minutes, stupid zombies. It is hard to remind myself they were once people, when they are such a monstrosity. I should not hate them as I do, but after the car incident, and the closet, I have a fresh hatred for them. If I could, I would exterminate every last one from the planet.

The night brings the cold, and soon I am starting to shiver. I welcome the cold, at least it is somewhat better than the heat and humidity. Still, it is sapping my little energy, and I am feeling so tired, that even slowly walking towards the end of town, is feeling like a marathon. I push on, knowing that I can not give in, I can not just lay down and rest, I will not wake up. I will probably die, and though I am immune from the plague, I will most likely freeze to death. I press on, until I get to a small office with bars on the windows. It seems like it might be safe inside. I make my way around to the front, and onto the small wooden patio. There is nothing nearby, so I try the door. It is closed, but not locked. I turn the handle and it opens. I wait to hear if there is movement inside. I do not hear anything so I toss a can into the office and wait. That thump should have aggravated anything inside, but I hear nothing.

I go into the office and close the door. It is dark so I can not see anything, but I feel around on the floor until I discover my can. I put it back into my book bag then turn and close the door, making it pitch dark inside. I have to wait for a bit until my eyes adjust. When they do I can see it is some professional like office, still in fair condition, surprisingly. I search it, my silenced gun at the ready. It is empty, so I start to look around at what all it has. I am delighted to discover it had several rifles, some ammo, and three pistols. They also left some uniforms and what looks like keys to a truck or car. I turn the lock on the door, then pull over a chair, sitting down in it, I open the can of peaches, eating them and drinking a full canteen of water, before I lean the seat back and close my eyes. I am asleep nearly instantly, but the office windows are still intact, and the cold wind can not get to me. I am still cold, but not freezing. I am safe, the door is metal reinforced, the windows barred, and the walls brick. I can sleep here, I am as safe as I can be considering I am in a town so heavily infested with zombies, that it apparently has not been looted yet.

My night is troubled, but I have dreams of Banksy, looking over at me as we drove along. I dream of Dodger's laugh, her smile, her stories of adventure. I awake feeling more alive, but I wonder how they are doing in Sanctuary. I miss them so much. They would know what to do. I have no idea, and that reality comes to me fast, as I see shadows moving back and forth outside, as the zombies are now more active, and are just outside the door. I open the last of my cans, eating slowly, then drink half the canteen, trying to decide what to do first. Do I search for food, or try to get more water? I suppose water.

 

With a sigh, I get up, brush myself off, relieve myself in the bathroom of the office, thankful for that, and gather up a pistol with some ammo, some more for the sub-machine gun, reloading the empty magazine, and a leather jacket and what looks like a police vest, which might just be bullet proof. I am not sure how I am going to do this, but I go to the door, unlocking it, and turn the handle...


	9. Sandcastles And The Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie hits rock bottom

A Survivors Story Chapter 9  
Chapter 9  
Sand Castles And The Tide

The morning light assails my eyes. I blink them, reflexively, trying to gain purchase of my environment, beyond. It seems to help, immediately becoming dimmer, though that is merely the door coming back into me. The howl from behind the door brings instant fear to my heart, the door however, brings instant pain to my face, as it slams back into me, trapping me between it and the jam. I am left handed, in case you wondered, so this presents an immediate concern. I can not bring my gun to bear. I blink again, seeing red, but it is blood from my forehead running into my eyes. The pressure relents so I shove back and am able to extricate myself as I feel the zombie backhand me. I momentarily feel myself falling, having been knocked completely off my feet. I tumble off the veranda, onto the ground at the feet of a couple others. One swipes at me and all I can do is to push it back with the end of the rifle. It swipes at it, knocking it from my grasp. The other swings and nearly collects me, instead it hits my pack, once again knocking me around.

I roll onto my back, pulling the small pistol from my pocket. I am lining up on the closest one when I hear more howling from around back. They are alerting more, I am out of time. I can not fight them, I have to run. I roll to my knees, pushing up off the ground as the closest one takes a giant swing at me hitting me in the side. It hurts bad, driving the little sub-machine gun into my ribs. It knocks the wind out of my lungs, and I cough and feel as if I could throw up, but I keep scrambling. I have no destination, right now anywhere but here sounds good. I hear them behind me, close. Too close!

Daring to look over my shoulder, I see at least a dozen, possibly more, all looking at, and starting after me. I feel the trickle of blood in my eyes and mouth, my nose is filled with it, and I can hardly breath. I nearly fall, I am leaning to run so hard, and have to push off the ground again to stay upright. I am running for my life now. I have no idea where I am going, but it does not seem to be helping. Every turn I make, more of them appear. I half turn, firing the small pistol blindly, just hoping it will hit one, more terrified than planned. It is entirely the wrong thing to do, I am only telling even more where to come. Right now though, I am too afraid to think of that, I only want to kill the ones closest to me, to get a least a few meters between me and them. They are so fast!

The gun clicks empty entirely too soon. I focus now on where I am going. Down the street, past a group of them. They all have turned and are trying to take swipes at me as I run past, but I duck down, dodging side to side, making them pause enough to try to aim at me. It is enough that I can get past, into the little town square. I have, it seems, the entire population of the town on me, that is, until I turn past the kiosk, then even with the hoard so hot on my heels, I pause. I have found the entire population. Bodies. At least a hundred, maybe more, all laid out at random angles. Pieces are ripped and torn like an insane game of pickup sticks. The ground here is blackened with blood, old dried blood. The zombies and crows are sharing a feast. The smell is so over powering that I feel vomit immediately come to me, and I throw up nothing but bile. If I had anything left in my stomach, it would certainly empty. Instead, I dry heave a couple times, trying to move, to run, staggering instead to the low fence. I climb over it, feeling my hands now dirty with whatever was on the fence. I don't want to know. It looks like the town must have gathered here to all kill themselves together. Men, women, children. From elderly, to infants, they were here, and are now feeding the zombies and crows. I have never seen this so up close. I can hardly pry my gaze from it, but manage to, long enough to see the following zombies now trying to navigate around the fence, and the few zombies that are willing to abandon their feast of death, now turn and see me.

I force myself to run, unable to really breath, I run along the fence line, gasping and sucking at breath, trying to fill my lungs enough to stop the threatening darkness that is trying to come, to take me to unconsciousness, from which I would not recover. I would be eaten alive, like the survivors of the helicopter, like my family perhaps.

The fence is coming to an end, so I make for it, wanting to get away from this visage as well as find somewhere more protective. Behind me, I hear five of the zombies that were feeding on the rotting corpses. I grab the sub-machine gun and turn to fire. It refuses to fire. I do as Banksy taught me, and pull the lever along the front. It goes back, then forward most of the way, but nothing. I let it drop back onto the sling. It is broken, it seems. I will have to look at it later, assuming I have a later. That is in doubt as I see even more of them from side streets coming. With nothing to lose, I make for one of the smaller houses. The door is closed, so I hope with everything I have, that it is not locked or barricaded from the inside. If so, this will be the last decision I make, because if I can not get in, I will be trapped, and have nowhere to go.

I reach the door, grabbing at the knob, only to feel it refuse to turn. It is locked. I am dead. I can not fight through the swarming zombies, I can not run any farther. With nothing left to lose, I grab the sub-machine gun and use it like a hammer, to smash the knob. It comes off after the third swing, and the door opens. They are upon me however, and I can not even try to close it. They are that close. I just dash across the room, opening an interior door and throwing it shut behind me. It actually manages to shut, but can not catch, and swings back open as the first of the swarm pour through it.

I turn down a hallway, to my right, towards the back door. It is open. I run through then slam it and this time push on it with all my weight. I hear it click, the small knob will not hold them for long, but maybe it will give me a few seconds. I lean against it as I turn, looking at the back yard. It has high walls. It looks secure, other than the weak lock on the rather old weak door. They will have no problem getting through that given a few swings. I take a couple steps, seeing the high wall. There is a picnic table near the wall. I begin to run, jumping onto the picnic table, then leap with all my might to the wall. I manage to land half way over it, and pull myself to the top as the swarm break through the door into the backyard. From atop the high wall, I see the town around me. It is so heavily infested, it looks as if the entire population of Chenarus gathered here. Most likely, it is merely the gathering of the town I passed through with the gas, as well as the entire population pushed out of Novomitrovsk. Still, there are too many to fight. I must abandon this place as fast as I can. As the swarm gather at the bottom of the wall, trying to reach me, I run along the top, like a balance beam, but much wider.  
At the corner, I let myself down on the far side, obviously, and take that moment to lean against the wall, holding my side. Even through the thick vest, it hurts. I am starting to catch my breath now, but the dizziness and the lack of food and water, and the heat are starting to really take their toll on me. I need to drink, and I need food.  
I run across the street, then duck low, behind a lorry that looks as if it saw its best days well before I was born. I crouch over, feeling the pain of my ribs, and slowly make my way between the houses on the far side of the street. Once to the back of them, I see several zombies, but they do not see me. I sneak past, wiping the blood from my face with my forearm. I manage to get to the front corner of the houses that backed up to these, and the next street is also full of them. The chances of me making it down that street without being seen are pretty low. I decide not to risk that. I back up and try a side window. It opens just enough that I can peek inside. It is empty. The door on the far side is closed, so at least this room is safe, and right now I need somewhere safe to regroup and figure out whats left.

I use the sub-machine gun to pry the window open a bit more, then I take off my backpack and carefully push it through, lowering it down on the other side so it does not land with a thump. Then I pull myself up and through the window, pushing it down again. Zombies are good at tracking by scent, it seems, and I am leaving a blood trail. I have to stop my bleeding and gather my thoughts.

Once inside, I lean back against the wall, head back, letting my nose stop bleeding. My lip is cut, but not bleeding anymore. My cheek is swollen, I am sure I have a black eye. The cut above my eye is not big, but it bleeds like something much worse. I take off the police vest as well as my shirt. I rip the bottom of my shirt off and tie it around my forehead. It staunches the bleeding enough to perhaps stop it until I can attend to it properly. I pull the remains of my shirt on, no need to die half dressed.

I see my sub-machine is indeed broken. There is something jammed into the place the bullets go. I have no idea how to fix that, so I figure its ruined. I at least unscrew the silencer, taking it off, and am delighted to find it fits the Makarov pistol. Thank goodness the police here are so well organized. How they were unable to stop the zombies, I do not understand, but they really should have been able to. Though I also see the many broken military vehicles, and I am convinced, there is more going on here than just the zombies. Chenarus is victim of something larger. This scientist must be involved in whatever it is, and if it is larger than this, then maybe they have somewhere safe.

I get up, leaving my gear lay for a minute. I need to look around. I am in a kitchen of some sort. There are bags of what look to be different kinds of food laying on the floor. They have been torn open and the food pieces are scattered all over. In the cupboards, I see some canned goods. I look them over, seeing most of them are merely ingredients for cooking, nothing I can eat immediately. I open the ice box, which is a new odor that there are no words to describe. Inside, there is what once was milk, now a science project, some rotted meats, and in back, three bottles of unopened water. I take those, closing the ice box and thankful I might never smell THAT again. I wipe off the top of a water bottle, then start to drink it as I lean against the counter.

I then realize, I am not alone. Sitting on the kitchen table, observing me in silence, is a little kitten. It looks half starved, but adorable. I see the mommy cat, she looks to have died some time ago, so this poor thing has probably been surviving on its own. I take a small bowl and a can of cat food, and go to my back pack. I open the can and scoop some out. I slide it to the kitty and without much hesitation, she starts to eat like its never eaten before. As it eats, I manage to pick her up and hold the food for it, watching her eat. I walk to the counter, putting them both on the counter, as I get another low bowl and pour her some water. She stops eating long enough to drink it all, looking up at me for more. I pour more. Then I drink some myself. We both enjoy the time together, and I realize, I can not just leave this poor little thing here alone to die. “I guess you're coming with me, now.” I say to her. “How you managed so long on your own, I don't know, but you look like you didn't have long left.”

I wonder how much longer I have left. I still have to get out of here, and get... somewhere. I go back to my backpack and sort through it. I remove all the magazines for the sub-machine gun as well as the rifle, that I lost. That leaves me plenty of room, so I put the remaining water bottles inside, as well as some powdered milk, a couple cans of beans, and several cans of cat food. Then I look around and am delighted to find a sturdy bag that looks as if it was the home owners grocery bag. I line the bottom with a couple towels from the drawers, then place my new friend inside it and let her get used to it, curling up to sleep off her meal.

I take my, now silenced, pistol, and slowly open the door. The rest of the apartment appears to be empty. I look through the living area, seeing the small television set. I remember watching television before. It has been so long since then. It has been so long since I heard music. My headphones died a couple days after the helicopter went down. I was able to recharge them a bit, but they since died again. I go upstairs, seeing the master bedroom. It looks as if it was cleaned before the zombies came to Chenarus, because everything is placed exactly so, only now there is a fine film of dust covering it all. The bed looks so inviting. I walk over, turning the corner down and lay across it just for a moment. That moment lasts for a few hours.

It is afternoon, and I go back down to hear the kitty meowing from inside its new carry bag. I scoop out more of the cat food, placing it on a small saucer in the bottom of the bag, and let her eat. I go back up the stairs to the second room, and see its is a child's room. She was far younger than me, so there is nothing for me to take, and the clothing in the parent's room is far too large, but I settle on a black tee shirt that looks as if the woman wore it. It looks laughable on me, but beats the torn tank top.

I return to the kitchen, pulling the back pack on, then putting the grocery bag over my shoulder, taking my little companion with me, as we go to the back door. Outside the back door are only two zombies. Neither are aware of us, so I lower my silenced pistol at them and fire at their heads. Both go down nearly silently. We sneak along the back side, across the gap between the apartments, to the row of houses beside. Fences block my way, so I turn and head towards the street, knowing that earlier it was full. It is still full, but we are near a police car.

I sneak to it, pulling the handle softly, till it releases, and the door opens. I lean inside, seeing the keys still in the ignition. I carefully turn them just a little till I see the lights on the instrument panel glow. Its still got some juice in the battery. This just might start. I have no other real options, it is either I risk it, and if I fail, I rush back to the apartments, or I try to make it on foot, but in this heat, and with all the zombies around, that seems unlikely to be successful. I put the kitty inside, then take off my pack, pushing it onto the passenger seat. Please have enough life left in you to start. I close the door most of the way then turn the key. It turns over ever so slowly. It seems as if it won't start. I try again as now every zombie around is alerted to me. It makes that sound you fear, when you know you're fucked. I'm about in tears, ready to abandon it, when it catches a brief ignition, starting to turn by its own means, then fires up. Good old Soviet era engineering. I close my door properly, then shift the car into first, driving down the street as quickly as it will take me. I shift again now as bodies start to slam into the car as I pass by. I hit them more and more, unable to avoid them. Soon the front is covered in blood, much like the large truck we drove through a hoard with. I learned from that, and know I can not just drive into them, I need to avoid them if possible.

I turn down the side street, hitting a pile of something, and I hear a very bad noise. The car pulls to the side, but I keep going, turning the wheel to correct, and driving out of the town. I am going East again, and I start to relax just a little. Me and this motley little cat are going to make it.

We manage to put a mile behind us before the car finally coughs, sputters, then dies. It rolls to its last stop, on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere. I know the road took us North and East, so my best guess is, we are somewhere East of Smirnovo, or North of Novomitrovsk. I sit on the ground, leaning against the fender, sipping some water, and feeling a slight breeze. It is going on evening, and starting to cool down. After pouring some water for my kitty, I decide to search the car. In the trunk I find magazines and ammo for some kind of gun that I do not have. I leave them, they are worthless to me, but I do empty a few, they seem to shoot the same ammunition as my pistol, so that could come in handy. I reload the empty clip and replace it in my pistol. There is really nothing else in the car that I can use, so I abandon it, and pull my pack on, pick up my kitty carrier, and turn East. My ribs hurt so bad, I can not stand to wear the police vest, so I just tie it to the pack, along with the leather jacket. It is too warm still to wear that.

I had it all, briefly, guns, ammo, a safe place to sleep, but it quickly all slipped through my grasp, just like sand. The more you try to grip, the faster it slips out of your grasp. Maybe that's true with everything in life. It must be true with love. The closer I got to Banksy, the quicker he had to leave. The same with Dodger. Just as I started to get to know her, she also had to leave me behind. I look down the long lonely road. Maybe this is how its meant to be. I don't know. One girl, armed with a pistol, and protecting a helpless little kitty, alone in a world full of ravenous monsters, trying to find a mysterious scientist, that may not even exist. Somehow, in this insane asylum called Chenarus, that almost makes sense.

 

As I walk along, I decide, I will name the cat Eponine. She will be my one friend, and we will figure out the riddle of this place together. Certainly, it can't get any crazier than this. Maybe those people in the town square had it right. Maybe it was smarter to take the easy way out. They all died together. In the end, they were with the ones they loved. And here am I, thinking I am so clever. I am alone, nobody knows if I even live or die, nobody cares. When my time comes, nobody will even notice. Maybe they had it right, and I would be smarter to put myself and Eponine out of our nightmare with a couple shots from the pistol. What would someone think discovering our bodies out here in the middle of nowhere? Would they even care? Did I really care about the bodies back at the town? What is this place doing to me? What am I becoming? It seems harder to really feel anything most of the time. Maybe in a strange way, I am dying inside. Maybe that is how this ends. The zombies may not last long, eventually rotting and that will be the end of them, but what of those of us left behind? What will we be like? So many questions. I walk down this lonely road, alone with only my thoughts.


	10. Reconstitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ray of hope

A Survivors Story Chapter 10  
Chapter 10  
Reconstitution

Three days ago, I found myself leaning against the fender of the police car, trying to put some kind of sense to this endeavor I have assumed. It may not be Homer's Odyssey, certainly I do not have hundreds of screaming Argonaut's dying at every corner, but I find it no less challenging than Jason found his travels.

Being left somewhat abruptly, I walked along the side of the road the first day. I was ever so exhausted from the previous days adventure, so I took the chance to just clear my mind and focus on placing one step in front of the next. That had been my purpose, until the rain started. It came with a violence, as if to make up for long threatening humidity that preceded it for the weeks prior. It was that pounding rain, along with my lack of any real provisions, and my crumbling self motivation, that finally led me to collapse in the mid level apartment of a large building, overlooking what must be Novomitrovsk.

That was a bit over a day ago. The lack of zombies has been very nice, and I have only had to shoot my pistol a couple times to chase off some dogs, as well as to warn off a traveler that took too much interest in my residence.

This evening, I am sitting by the small stove in the apartment. It is still fairly cold, with the windows being broken out. I took some pieces of carpet and tacked them over the windows as well as I could, to keep the wind from blowing the rain in and soaking the floor. Beyond the door, along the hallway, I have set up some small strings with cans and rocks, so anyone, or anything, coming in, will make a ruckus and give me some advantage.

Eponine is eating some food, having taken to staying near her carrier. I am leaning against the wall, holding my pistol, trying to balance the drive to live, against the futility of the struggle. Increasingly, I am understanding the decision that last town took, to take the easy way out. The zombies rule the towns and countryside. They are relentless and seemingly limitless in number. There are not enough bullets, or enough people left to shoot them, to eradicate them by force. Time is the only means to burning them from the Earth, and I am so weary of time. I simply do not have enough left in me, to go on, day after day, mile after mile, hiding and running. I am tired. I am cold, and miserable and ready to just close my eyes forever. Dodger and Banksy made it out. They are safe, probably eating something properly cooked, or sleeping in comfortable beds, untroubled by the constant threat of death.

The uneaten can of peaches still sits beside me. I have no desire to eat it. I should, I have not eaten properly in a few days, and I am weak and feel so tired. I just no longer care. I eject the magazine from the pistol and look at the small bullets in it. They are so simple. One strike of the hammer on the rear, and they find their purpose, flying through the air, until they fall, or impact. Either way, their purpose is served. Maybe life is like that. Some peoples lives find their mark, and they end successfully. Others, like me and Eponine, we miss the target entirely, and are just left, a failure, unnoticed, and discarded.

She has no idea what the world is. She is so skinny, and vulnerable. She will not make it alone, unable to defend herself. The monsters in the world are too many, too strong, too determined to erase her from her life all too soon. She was born into a violent world and never had a chance. It will be a kindness, a mercy, if I shoot her in the head. She will eat, then try to clean herself as best as she can, then she will lay down, curled up beside me, and I will shoot her in the head, then shoot myself. We will end this together. Eponine and I, alone, in this cold apartment, tonight.

I wonder how Banksy is. They said they had the last hospital in Sanctuary. They said it still had electricity, and its machines were still functioning. They said he would get the best care possible, and that they were very sure he would be just fine given a couple weeks to recover. It has been ten days, as near as I can tell, since I walked away from the huge gates. I really didn't expect to last half this long, on my own. I guess I just kind of assumed I would have died somehow, from the heat, or by zombie. It never even really occurred to me, that I might make it this long. That alone almost makes me feel proud, but it is not enough to merely survive. We all need a reason to keep trying. I know I said I am looking for this scientist, but I have no idea if he even exists, nor what I think I am going to do if I do find him. And what if this is all predicated upon a hoax, that there never was any scientist? What if this entire sojourn is nothing more than my minds delusion? I don't know that I even care anymore. I am just tired. I am too tired of this world to care. I just want it to end.

Eponine has finished eating, and she will groom herself only a few minutes. I brush the hair from my face, once again put the magazine back in the pistol and chamber a round. I have done this a dozen times, this will be the last. I am ready. I am going to finally make it all go away. The monsters have won, and I have not a single fuck left to give. I feel her curl up beside my leg, finally ready to sleep.

I feel the tears fall down my dirty cheeks. They gather along my chin, dripping onto my dirty shirt, wetting it as much as the rain did. I wonder if Banksy will remember me. Will he one day tell the story of the strange little French girl, that drove him to the last city on Earth? Will he tell his children of the days of his travels through the wastelands, and the girl that fell in love with him? Will he even remember how I looked into his eyes, kissed his lips, held him so tight on cold nights? Will he hold onto those memories, or will he forget them, as we forget all things that we let go of? Will Dodger and he make a life together? Perhaps she will take the place I was destined to never fill, in his life. She might be the lover, the friend, the companion, that I was never meant to be. I hope they find happiness together, my love, and my only friend. I hope sometimes, on a cold rainy night, they think about me. Maybe they will laugh at how I kept shooting people in the foot, or the time we stole the truck together, or the day we all met, raiding the soda machine. We had some good times, we did laugh, didn't we? It wasn't always painful. Sometimes it was almost good. I just wasn't good enough. In the end, I had to let go. In this world, sometimes we have to just let go.

Eponine has finally gotten comfortable and is resting. I watch her till her breathing slows, steadies. She too has nightmares. Tonight, they will end. I wipe my eyes and lower the barrel to just behind her innocent little head. I am not sure what signal I wait for, but I wait, holding the trigger, just a few last moments, little girl, and this will all be just a bad dream. The bad dream will be over, and we will maybe meet in whatever comes next.

As she sleeps, she rolls to her side, then I see her little face, looking up at me. So innocent, so trusting. I am all she has. She trusts in me, she depends upon me, to take care of her, to defend her, to love her. Without me, she would have died, trapped in that kitchen. Her little face is so pathetic, so sad, with its raggedy whiskers. Her ears, just too large for her head, her scrawny body too small, seemingly, to support her head. Her paws, so large on her tiny little legs. She is awkward and uncoordinated, utterly dependent upon me. In this world, she is the one last innocent thing. This little life, has killed nobody, has harmed nobody, and only wants to be loved and cared for. She offers herself, completely, all her love, her potential, everything that makes her what she is, she offers to me, in return, all she asks is that I take care of her. And I can not do this. I just can not hurt her. I can't. I just can't take away this one pure, innocent creature. This little ragamuffin kitten, laying beside me, is the only real purpose I have anymore. I lower the pistol to the floor, pushing it away. Eponine wakes, just a little, looking up at me, uncomprehending of what is going on, but gives me a little meow, lovingly, trusting me. I can't stop crying as I pick her up and hold her. “It's going to be OK baby... I'm here. I'm going to take care of you, and it's all going to be OK. Come morning, we will find you somewhere safe, and I will make sure you are OK. That is my promise.” I say between sobs. She accepts this, I believe, and decides to lick my finger, then give it a little bite. Yes, shes going to be OK. I can't leave her, so it looks like I will have to find it within myself, to go on, at least until I can find a place for her.

They say that if you wait long enough, what you are looking for, finds you. I often used to wonder who “they” were, and just who exactly wrote down everything “they said.” I suppose, if you say enough things, however, strange, eventually, some of them are bound to come true. Oddly enough, in a run down apartment, in Novomitrovsk, on a cold rainy evening, one of these sayings, came true.

I am laying awake, trying to figure out just where to go, when I hear the tin cans rattle. Assuming it could be an animal, or a zombie, I put Eponine in her carrier, and gather my pistol, prepared to flee if necessary. I open the door, just a crack, to peek out into the hallway. There are shadows moving on the lower mezzanine and they are shining hand torches. They are neither animal, nor zombie, but no less dangerous. “Whoever you are, I am armed, I will shoot you, so... go away.” I yell down at them. I hear them step away, then some muffled laughter.

“You took a shot at one of our guys a day ago, you have bigger problems than you know.” one yells back. I hear the sound of a rifle being worked, loading a bullet. I am quite sure they had their rifles ready before they came near, so that was for my benefit, and it doesn't go unnoticed.

“I told him the same I'm telling you, I am just passing through, and to keep away.” I yell back at them.

“You said 'fuck off'.” I hear one yell back. The others laugh a bit louder. I get the feeling they are not taking this so seriously.

“You said it could have been a group, that they seemed pretty well trained.” The first one says.

“It was dark, and they surprised me.” the other one says, rather defensively. More laughter, then some teasing insults about his manhood.

“You can put down whatever gun you have, we are the Gent's of Novo, and you are safe, so long as you are within the city limits of Novo.” The first one says. The Gents. I've heard of them, they keep the city safe, from bandits and zombies.

“OK, you can come up.” I say putting my pistol back in my pocket, but keeping it ready to shoot, just in case things go pear shaped. You can never be too careful, especially in the zombie apocalypse.

They come up, weapons lowered. Each has the same surprised look seeing me. I suppose girls are not commonly seen traveling alone. It is a harsh world these days, and it is unsafe for anyone to travel alone, much less a girl.

“I am sorry we put a fright into you. I must say, it is quite unusual to find a girl traveling alone.” their leader says. He introduces himself as Mister Jinx. “That is Shovel, you met him already. This is Adam, and that is Matt. Welcome to Novo.” he says as they take up positions around the room. I notice one keeps by the door, another positions himself near the window, always keeping watch.

“I am Ellie. Thank you. I would offer you something to eat, or drink, but, I have nothing to share, and can't afford the kindness.” I say pushing my pack near to the carry bag. Eponine meows at the movement and noise. The Gents all look at the bag, once again surprised. “This is Eponine, shes... also alone.” I say taking her out of the carry bag.

Mister Jinx looks at the scrawny little kitten, his face growing softer. I am not sure if it is sadness, happiness, or what, but it is an expression I would not expect to see from a man such as him. His hand shakes as he reaches out and gently brushes little Eponine's hair with his fingers. She meows, rubbing her face on his fingers. He smiles, pulling his hand back reluctantly.

“I am not wanting any trouble. I'm just passing through, I wont be long. I just need to rest, find a safe place for her, then I will be on my way.” I say, slipping her back into her carrier. Mister Jinx continues to stare at the bag, well after Eponine is safely curled up in it.

“Lass, I will extend our protection to you, and you are free to travel the city as you please. I do have one request, and it is only a request.” he says, I swear, I see his eyes water up a bit.

“I'm listening.” I say watching him watch the bag. The others also look a bit startled by his change in demeanor. They are trained military, that is obvious in how they communicate without speaking. Even though I have never been in the military, I have been around soldiers quite a bit in the last few months, and I have seen how a look, a minute gesture, a glance, conveys information, what to ignore, what to look at, be aware. They have been speaking volumes to each other since they arrived. What they seem to be saying now, would be much like “what the hell is up with him?”

“I have adopted... a family, here in Novo. I have a daughter, about half your age, I recon. You mentioned finding a safe home for your kitten. I think my daughter, she would love to take her in. It would help them both.” he says in a way fathers do when discussing their families. “She's been through... well, she has good days, and some hard days. I think Eponine would help her, as much as she can help care for Eponine.”

“I would like to know that she is going to be cared for, if the girl doesn't want her. If I agree to this, you have to swear, on your life, that you will care for the kitten as if you were me.” I say holding my hand out to him. He takes it, gently, though his hands are rough. We seal the deal with a hand shake, and then everyone relaxes a bit.

They help me to get the rest of my gear packed, and we walk down the stairs, out into the rain. Ten minutes later, we arrive at a truck, and he helps me inside. The Gents climb into the covered back, and Mister Jinx drives us to the capitol building. Inside, we go up a few stairs, finally arriving at a series of apartments. Inside the far room, he shows me his family, his adopted daughter, and we introduce her to Eponine.

They say we only remember the bad days, for those are the days we learn from. In this instance, “they” need to shut the fuck up, and go away. I remember the good days. The days riding with Banksy, and riding with Dodger, laughing at her stupid jokes, and now, the day I saw a 7 year old girl come back to life, holding a kitten, equally happy to be loved like no other, will stay with me forever. Eponine has found a home. Banksy and Dodger found a home. Maybe in this world, I do have a purpose. I find those who need one, a place to call home. I bring together the strays, the orphans, the throw away lives, and make them whole. Maybe that is my purpose. Maybe it IS my job to heal this broken world, one life at a time.

 

By the next morning, they have given me a nice hunting rifle. Shovel Guy, I swear, that is what everyone calls him, tells me it is a .308. He shows me what the boxes of ammunition look like, and slips a few in my pack when he thinks I am not looking. Mister Jinx puts a bag of fresh baked cookies in my bag as well, from his daughter, he says. Adam and Matt drive me to the city limits, and drop me off, wishing me well. They have a home here, called Novo, and it is where they belong. The road, however, calls to me, and out there, in the wastelands, is where I belong. I wave goodbye to the Gents, wish them well, then turn around and walk into the distance.


	11. Everything changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gangs all here

A Survivors Story Chapter 11  
Chapter 11  
Everything Changes

The rain returns, with a vengeance. I made it a fair distance yesterday, after leaving Novomitrovsk, but today, its coming down in buckets. I press on, wanting to make it to Nagornoe. It is hard to really tell where I am heading, it is dark, and the rain makes it hard to see more than a few dozen meters, and now there is a fog creeping in. I am cold again, soaked and shivering as I walk. Maybe I should have stayed in Novomitrovsk a few days, but I really wanted to be on my own. It is not that I did not like the Gents, far from it, but I was a rather uninvited guest, and I can tell they were quite glad to see me go. I got the feeling, they knew something I did not.

The fog rolls in, making visibility almost zero. I end up navigating by my compass, more or less dead reckoning. I know that the little map I have shows Nagornoe to the West of where they dropped me off, but there is a fairly huge mountain like rise between here and there, and several times, I encounter a grade so steep I cant get up without slipping back down in the wet grass. If it was dry, I could probably be past it by now, but I have had to double back several times. I am working on a section with many rock outcroppings, when I stumble onto a hoard of zombies. They are everywhere, appearing seemingly out of the fog, all around me. I must have wandered right into the middle of their migration. One notices me, gives out a pained cry, immediately turning to come at me. That signals others, though many can not see me, so they seem to wander quickly in random directions. I am scrambling, running in whatever direction I think is clear. I can only see a few meters ahead, so everyone is really just running blindly in circles, as they chase me, and I just bound around rocks, trees, up and down the steep ridge. Behind me, I hear them coming, they don't tire. At least they seem to just keep coming. For all I know they could be taking turns, but it really makes no difference to me. I keep running, not looking back. It seems like every turn I make, a zombie appears out of the fog, turning to cry out, charging at me. Each time, I turn, left, right, I don't even know what direction I am running, I don't care. I keep running, stumbling, crying. This is my worst nightmare come true, they keep coming, face after face, there must be hundreds, or maybe I keep running back and forth across their line.

I can feel them getting closer. I glance back as I dodge around some trees. They are about ten feet back, and closing. I turn and put my head down, running with what little I have left in me. I am exhausted. I want to stop, but I can't, I have to....

Suddenly I feel myself falling. I put my hands out in front of me, feeling myself bounce off a rock face, falling farther, rolling down a crevice and finally coming to land on the bottom of a ravine. There are stones, dirt, and lots of rain coming down in my face, pelting my helmet and forcing me to turn to my side. That small movement at least keeps me moving, not just laying there in a state of shock.

Above me I hear a few of them follow me over the cliff. I can't lay here, they will come down around me, and I will be trapped. I push to my feet, but my leg hurts bad. I limp a few steps, realizing I will not be running. I hear the first come down with a thump, landing on its head just behind me. Then another lands near it, on its legs, but I hear the snap of its legs. I remain silent, limping farther along. I think I hear three more thumps, but I can no longer tell, the sound of the rain pouring down the ravine, and now the rushing water just a little farther to my left, where run off is flowing through, mutes all other noise. I look at the run off, realizing it is growing deeper, and start to look for a way to climb out of here.

After a few minutes of limping along, I do not hear anything behind me, though again, with the sound of the run off, it would be unlikely. I lean against the rock wall, looking back around the side of a huge boulder. I can't see anything, maybe if any survived the fall, they went the other way. I keep pressing uphill, until I get to a section so rough, so slick, I can go no farther.

I find a bit of an outcropping, and try to take cover under it. It only provides a small bit of cover. My jacket is ruined, torn on the sides and back, not all the way through, but enough that the leather is ruined and I am still getting soaked through. I check my leg, glad to see it is not broken, but it is sprained bad, and by the time this rain ends, it will be so swollen, so I take my boot off, letting it at least not be crushed inside of the boot, when it does swell. I know it means I wont get my boot back on, but honestly, I'm not going anywhere now.

I crawl around a bit and find a small alcove and crawl under, at least staying somewhat dry. I am soaked already though, so it's too late to stay truly dry. But I am less frozen, without the cold rain on me. Unfortunately, it is far too small in here to get any kind of fire going, even if I did have a way to do it. Instead, I just curl up, trying to keep as much of my body together as I can. The thin jodhpurs are torn, ruined. My legs are scratched too. I at least wash the scrapes, wrapping them in wet bandages, but at least trying to protect them. Then I drink some, eating a bit of canned fruit, and wait out the storm. Maybe once this rain and fog lift, I might find a way out of here.

I sit in this little alcove for at least a day or two. It is hard to tell anymore. I drift in and out of sleep, shivering, wet, hurting. It is hard to see very far, it seems to stay fairly dark down here. The rain stops, but I am still cold.

I crawl out, feeling my leg stiff, throbbing. It is not interested in walking, or moving in general. Still, I have to keep moving. I crawl over to the rock wall, using it to help me get standing. Now that the fog has lifted, I see that I am at the end of a ravine, and the only way out is either back past the zombies, or up this rock face. Neither solution appeals to me, but I am trapped down here if I don't do something, and I better do it soon. I will only get weaker, and die down here if I don't get out now.

I consider climbing the rock wall, but with a bad leg, that looks to be unlikely. Thankfully, the swelling has resided a bit in the last day or so, and I can at least slip my boot on, though it hurts to lace it up. I use the rifle as a crutch, trying not to let the end of the barrel poke my arm pit too often. That hurts when it does.

It takes me several hours, perhaps all morning, or evening, I can hardly tell, before I make it back to the place the zombies fell. The dead one is still laying there. The other one, the broken legs one, is still crawling around, trying to find a way out. I take my silenced pistol out and shoot it in the head. I don't want it crawling after me. So I press on, seeing the definite marks of a few more. Pieces of torn clothing, some skin caught on a rock, stuff even the rains couldn't just wash away. Great, I am not along, and I am heading for them.

After perhaps a day of this, I start to see the cliff sides are getting wider and less steep. I press on, around a bend, and see them, five of them, still together. They are about a hundred feet ahead, so I can't use the rifle, it would be hard to get a good sight on them in the scope. I pull out the pistol, knowing I will have to get danger close, to have a decent chance of hitting them. Ah, hell. I take the rifle up, and aim in on the closest one. The way the stock is damaged, I feel splinters in my cheek. The rifle took a good whack in the fall, the scope seems OK, but this will be a good test.

I work the bolt, chambering a round. Then I carefully squeeze the trigger. The rifle bucks in my shoulder, but the round goes well off to the side. I try again, working the bolt, and again it goes to the side. The scope must be off. Now, they are coming at me, so I put the rifle down, pull out the Makarov, and wait till they are in range.

The first drops with a shot to the head. I'm not so lucky the second or third, and empty the magazine into them, having to reload. While I fumble with the fresh magazine, the last two close in. I drop it, feeling it bounce off my boot. I can't stop to search for it, so I just pick up the rifle, working the bolt and firing from the hip. It hits the fourth in the chest, knocking it back into the last one. Both stumble down, and I take the chance to look down, finding the magazine a foot away by a rock. I grab it as they get up and slap it into the Makarov, letting the slide go, and firing them all, just spraying at the last two zombies. One goes down, tripping the other one. I drop the pistol, grabbing the rifle, working the bolt, and firing at it as it gets within three feet of me. It drops. I panic, trying to work the bolt on the empty rifle, before I realize both guns are empty.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself, then remembering to take some of the bullets Shovel Guy gave me, and reloading the rifle. Then I take another magazine from my little pack, and reloading the Makarov, before sitting down to put loose bullets into the two empty mags, now laying on the ground beside me. It takes several minutes, and I am shaking with adrenaline by the time I'm finished. I hear that some people get the shakes before a fight, some during, and some, like me, get them after. I find myself crying, though I'm not sure why. Still, I reload stuff, as I was taught to do by Banksy, and then take a long drink, realizing my water is about run out. Well, there is a stream next to me, so I dip my canteens in it, filling them, then dropping a water purification table in each. I can't risk a stomach bug. One of the guys at that first settlement, where I met Banksy, caught a stomach virus from untreated water. He died. It was a very gruesome death too.

As I am resting, I hear a truck. Normally, I would try to find cover, but I am hurt bad, lost, and out of food and need help. I stay still, sitting on the rock outcropping with my pistol in my belt and the rifle across my lap. After maybe twenty minutes, I see the truck along the top of the ravine. A guy inside stops the truck, getting out. He is dressed in military like clothing, carrying an M-4. I think he might be U.N. or something, though he does not wear the blue helmet like mine. Still, it would not be unreasonable that he left it on the seat or something.

He gets out of the truck, waving down at me. “Hey down there, you OK?” he yells. I shake my head no, showing him my leg. “You must be Ellie. I'm Lieutenant Waters, with the Mountain Rescue Regiment. You have no idea how many people are looking for you!” he says. I smile, wondering who would be looking for me, and why.

“I need some help, I took a fall.” I say. He nods, looking at the dead zombies.

“I heard the rifle shots. You are one lucky girl, those things probably just saved your life.” he says climbing down the cliff side. It is easy for him, it is much drier now and he isn't hurt.

“I would thank them, but... we aren't talking.” I say joking a bit. He laughs as he gets to me, then helps me to the waiting truck. Once inside, I feel the heater running. Lt. Waters reports back on his radio, that he's found me. I remain silent, wondering if this is a good thing, or not, but playing stupid, for the moment, keeping the pistol under the remains of my jacket, just in case.

“So, what do you mean by “people are looking for me?” I ask, wanting to at least know who it is that is so interested in me.

“Your friends. They arrived in town a day or two ago, said they thought you might be lost somewhere, or dead. Though they didn't say dead. I figured we would find your body somewhere, or you'd been infected. I got to say, I am surprised to see you alive.” he tells me offering some coffee. I can't say no to that, so I sip it, feeling the first taste of coffee in so long...

We drive West, but only for the rest of the day. At night, he pulls over, turning off the truck. “We can't go any farther. Tomorrow we will keep trying, but there are cannibals roaming this area. They hunt at night. In a way, you are damn lucky that you fell down that ravine. If you had made it this far, you probably would have run into them.

“Well, wouldn't it be safer to keep going? I mean, sitting out there in a truck, if they see it, they will get us.” I ask not understanding. He smiles.

“We aren't just doing nothing. I'm at the rendezvous point. We have three more trucks coming. They are full of armed team mates. They will get past them, collect us, and escort us back through the cannibal zone. I swear, fucking cannibals, we should eradicate them entirely, but they seem to disappear into the trees as soon as we start to hunt them.” he says showing more hostility than I would expect. The look in his eyes tells me, he probably lost someone to them. What a way to go.

I fall asleep in the truck not long after, exhaustion and injury claiming me. I awaken to hearing Lt. Waters talking to some guys. Then he returns, closing the door and starting the truck. “OK, listen up, keep your guns handy.” he tells me.

“The scope on my rifle is screwed up, it won't shoot straight.” I say warning him I wont be much use.

He takes the rifle and looks at it, seeing where the scope twisted. Before we drive off, he detaches the scope, giving it back to me. “Here, just use the iron sights. When we get to Nagornoe, you can get that fixed up. Until then, we will be fighting our way back through the fucking flesh eaters. You may have to help shoot.” He says pulling out to stay close to the middle of the line of trucks. There are seven trucks in total, all the same dull yellowish with the MRR logo on them.

We drive West, along a dirt path that looks so unused, it can barely claim the title “path.” Still, it leads through the woods, into a few fields, where we see them. There must be fifty of them, all armed to the teeth. The men in the back of the first trucks start to open fire with assault rifles. The cannibals return fire, but are hampered by a lack of cover. Because we are moving, it is harder to hit us, but they come very, very close. We drive on, heading towards a tree line on the other side, as both sides exchange fire. Then we get close enough, some of the bullets hit the front of the truck. Lt. Waters looks over at me “You gonna shoot the fuckers?” he barks. I blink a few times, then level the rifle out the door window, lining up on a group of them. I work the bolt and fire, and am stunned to see one fall. I just shot someone, not in the foot, but the chest. I think I just killed someone. I work the bolt and fire a few more times, not hitting anything, because of how we are bouncing around, and because, maybe, inside, I didn't want to.

Once we get past the cannibals, the convoy races to the far tree line. Once inside, we stop, check the trucks, and treat the wounded. We lost one, head shot, two others with shoulder wounds, they should live. I feel terrible. People were killed and injured because of me. I think I killed someone. I sit in the truck, unwilling to talk. I feel so horrible, even if they were filthy cannibals. I've never killed anyone before...

The rest of the trip to Nagornoe is uneventful. They stop to refuel, discuss the trip, and joke about how many of the flesh eaters they killed. I ride silently, head down, trying to come to terms with the fact I may have killed someone. Still, the cannibal only fell back, for all I know I hit close and he just stumbled back trying to get away, or someone else hit him. I was only aiming down the barrel, and the truck was bouncing a lot. The chances of me hitting him, are pretty low. I comfort myself that I most likely couldn't have hit one if I had to, which is strange because technically, I did have to.

Once we arrive back at Nagornoe, Lt. Waters keeps me near by, escorting me to a large house that they are using as a base. The town seems to be under the MRR control, and they have several vehicles and lots of men in similar uniforms. The rest of the town look to be a mixture of civilians and some U.N. members, trying to treat the survivors and gather information.

 

I follow him upstairs, shivering a bit, feeling warmer as the fireplaces inside are lit, but still chilled from the cold. Then he opens a door, and I see Banksy, looking a bit better than last time I saw him, sitting beside Dodger. They both stand, running over to hug me. And just like that, my world changes again.


	12. Unto The Breech...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting back

A Survivors Story Chapter 12  
Chapter 12  
Unto the breech...

Our reunion stretches into the night. It is early the next morning before we get done telling each other our stories. I learn a lot from Dodger. Where she gets her information from, she hedges at saying, but I've learned to trust her. They drove here in the truck, going North of Dobroe, since Dodger found out about the chemical weapon spill. How she knew, she doesn't say, but the smile she gives when I ask, tells me I am not likely to ever find out.

So she tells me they left Sanctuary after she accomplished her mission, and Banksy was able to get up and around safely. Apparently they made it here a few days ago and paid the Mountain Rescue Regiment to start a search for me, figuring I would continue to head in this direction. As usual, she makes it sound like pure luck, but Dodger doesn't deal with luck. I have no idea what she promised the MRR, but whatever it was, Lt. Waters seems very satisfied.

The next couple days for me are easy going. My ankle is a bit twisty, but I will live. Ideally I should be off it for a few more days, but we need to push. The Summer is drawing to a close, with more storms. It will be harder to travel in a few weeks, as the Fall storms start, and we want to be farther South, ideally. We discuss the plan for the trip to the military base just to our West. The MRR will escort us to the edge of their operational area, then they will turn back, and we will be mostly on our own. We met two other people that are headed in our general area. One is a guy named Tony, and another guy that goes by the name Crom. Both seem very capable, and Dodger seems to trust them. If Dodger trusts someone, then I trust them, though Banksy is a bit less trusting. The last member of our team, is a cowboy that came wandering into town, his name is Grey. He seems the no nonsense type. We will be moving fast to the edge of MRR territory, then we may have to abandon the truck. Dodger says there is at least two units of ORMO occupying the military base. She believes there may be a squad of Spetsnaz as well, so the entry will be contested.

We leave as soon as my ankle is better. Banksy is looking a bit stiff in his back, but insists that it is just the cold, since the weather has turned. The truck Banksy is driving will be followed by this crazy looking sedan, painted flat black with some odd looking metal pieces welded all over it. The sedan is jacked up with odd road tyres on it, and what looks like a machine gun mounted on top. The driver, a very spirited young guy, calls it the BatCar. I try to talk to him, but I don't get the chance, so I just call him BatCar. He has an infectious smile and I immediately find myself liking him. The people that do know him all seem to be very fond of him, and I can see why. The truck behind us will be driven by Lt. Waters. He is talking to someone dressed all in black with one of those flat caps I remember seeing the Gents of Novo wearing. He goes by the name Mister Blackout. Dodger vouches for him, so I feel confident with this group. In all, we should be powerful enough to handle anything we meet. Dodger thinks we might need some additional help, which worries me, but she also says we should be able to handle what we find. How she knows this, I don't know, but again... Dodger.

The trip to the military base is quiet. Banksy keeps holding my hand, asking me if I'm SURE I'm OK for this trip. I keep assuring him I will be fine, as we drive all that morning, well into the evening, before stopping for the night. We discuss the assault plans in detail. The base is actually fairly spread out for having so few buildings. The buildings to the North, closest to us, will be the insertion point. Mister Blackout and Lt. Waters, who decided to stay with us for this assault, will lead five volunteers to assault the buildings to the South of us, to draw fire. BatCar will support them, providing some heavy weapons support.

My job will be to stay back a bit, helping with communications, because I am not trained for combat like them. I accept that, since Banksy will be beside me, guarding me. I am not sure why he is so protective of me, I mean I know we are close, but I just get the sense there is more to it than our very close friendship. I would like to say it is love, but he is always just a bit distant, so I can only wonder.

The night passes quietly, most of the guys are checking weapons, discussing plans, and preparing for the battle. That night Banksy comes over to where I'm laying, we don't say a lot, nothing needing to be said. We make love and spend the night together and I lay awake wishing the morning would just never come.

It does come. The mist is heavy, covering the ground like a thin layer of cotton. The sun seems reluctant to shine bright, giving meager light in the morning sky. The glow is ethereal, lending itself to the surreal imagery I witness. The line of trucks kicks up dust, adding to the mist, making it impossible to see behind us. I take it as a sign to not look back. This mission, crazy as it is, is taking us into harms way.

We drive most of the early morning, arriving at the edge of the woods that surrounds the base just after noon. We disembark from the trucks, only keeping the BatCar with us because its very quiet. Even he stops farther into the woods. We go over the plan one last time in a group, then split up and wait for the bottom of the hour, to start our infiltration.

The first shots come close to the bottom of the hour. They are high power rifle shots, so we assume Mr Blackout is starting us of with his Mosin. I count five shots, slow, one then a pause, another then a pause. I look over that direction but see nothing, just hear shots going back and forth.

I follow Banksy under the fence, then over to a watch tower. The guard is hanging out of it. I assume Mr Blackout took care of him. I climb the tower, pulling up my binoculars and see the assault to our South is really raging. I see two guys in Green, which Dodger tells me would be Spetsnaz, the guys in the blue cammies, like I used to wear, are ORMO. They are former Military Police, Dodger told me.

The ORMO put up a good fight, reinforced by Spetsnaz, they hold a line using some vehicles as cover. BatCar edges his armored sedan up, using that heavy gun on top to whittle away at the defenses, but the ORMO are not so easily defeated, bringing up a tank of some sort. It also has a gun on it like BatCar's sedan, and it starts firing back. I see Lt. Waters slump over from some strafing fire. He rolls to the side then reaches back, grabbing his AK, which appears to be damaged. He ejects the useless magazine in it, and I can see there is damage to where a fresh magazine would go. Instead of panicking, he just ejects rounds from the drum, inserting them one at a time and taking shots at the ORMO. Mr. Blackout covers his position as ORMO try to close in, but decide to pull back to their cover, under his very accurate fire.

Grey maneuvers to the South of me, his Winchester sounds off three times fairly quickly, as he clears a pocket of ORMO, but he can not actually take the position, and falls back to the tree line under fire from two Spetsnaz, who are using some weapons I do not recognize. Tony provides cover fire for him, spraying a hailstorm of fire with his MP5K, giving Grey the chance to get behind a fallen tree. The assault is not going as well as we had hoped, the Spetsnaz were very good about preparing defensive positions, and the ORMO are trained well enough to not give away their advantage.

Dodger starts to circle to the North, I see two volunteers go with her, but one is cut down as they try to clear the roadway that stretches slightly farther North. About the time I see that, I see the tank moving forward just out of grenade range of our forces to the South. BatCar is keeping it back with his heavy gun, but the tank has succeeded in devastating his sedan, and I fear for him, he is in such grave danger, but that guy is fearless and stays in his armored car, laying down the only effective fire we have at this point, against that tank.

I then see headlights coming through the woods. Figuring it must be more ORMO, I try to signal to Dodger, but she is not in sight of me. The headlights creep up to the edge of the forest, then stop as they come under fire as well. I am terrified that we are trapped, until I see Craig, from the airport, get out of one of the trucks, along with Mr. Jinx and Shovel Guy. A few more guys get out, all wearing those flat caps, and I realize, the Gents have arrived. They immediately take cover, throwing some grenades at the ORMO, which is just enough to make the ORMO duck a bit behind cover.

Crom startles me by coming around the ORMO flank, holding a fire ax, he swings over and over, cleaving the hell out of two startled Spetsnaz. I understand where he gets the name Crom. The disruption is enough to startle the flank of ORMO, who flee their position. The break in the flank allows Mr. Blackout and Lt. Waters to push forward, the Lt. picking up one of those strange little sub-machine guns from the dead Spetsnaz soldiers.

Grey encourages the volunteers to lay down some cover fire as he and Tony push forward trying to get to BatCar. They make it most of the way before being forced to take cover behind a small knoll. Shovel Guy then opens up with his own Winchester, bouncing rounds off the vehicles the ORMO are using for cover. Mr. Jinx joins him, using an AKM to spray the vehicles, finally taking down a couple as they try to return fire.

Craig finally makes it up to Banksy and I at the guard tower. “I heard over the radio, at North East Air Field, that y'all were planning to have a little shindig up here, after they found you. I promised Dodger I would round up some help and be here. Looks like we got here just in time.” he says pushing that crazy cowboy hat up a bit like some Western Movie hero. Banksy smiles, showing his approval. Looks like Dodger left nothing to chance.

From my vantage point, I still see the tank is laying down devastating fire on BatCar, though it is ignoring the others, as BatCar fearlessly returns fire. The rounds bouncing off his armored sedan prevent Grey and Tony from getting any closer, but their push does force the ORMO to focus their fire in that direction, giving Mr. Blackout the chance to snipe at them as they expose themselves.

North of us, out of sight, Dodger and her volunteers have arrived at the Northern most buildings, almost unopposed, almost. She pulls up as three ORMO guards take down her volunteers and one hits her in the chest, knocking her back on her butt as her plate carrier vest takes one hell of a hit from a Makarov. As she shakes her head, trying to clear her mind of the fog that comes from being punched by a jackhammer, rounds echo from a very highly modified M-4. Shaun sprints from the treeline to take down the other guards, then kneels down to help Dodger up.

They clear the first building, finding nothing but supplies, however, in the second building, they find an entire research lab, and five scientists inside cowering under their lab tables. The facilities are fairly well stocked, and the scientists seem to have quite a big jump on some research going, if the work written on the white boards is any indication. Dodger ignores that, quickly telling the scientists, in Russian, to have no fear, they are being liberated. One of the scientists recognizes her and tells the others she is to be trusted. Score another one for the Dodger.

To the South, the situation turns when the tank seems to run out of ammunition. The gun silences, and BatCar is able to provide the cover fire that he hoped to provide. His incredible courage at staying at his post pays dividends as he turns that big gun on the unarmored vehicles the ORMO are hiding behind. Those huge rounds cut through the trucks and cars like they are made of paper, and the ORMO collapse. Mr. Blackout fired off several rounds, before sitting back, out of ammo. His Mosin is smoking, and the barrel is so hot he has to put it down and draw his Magnum.

Lt. Waters is able to get to BatCar and pokes his head inside, turning and giving Grey the thumbs up, as Grey takes down some fleeing ORMO, with his Winchester. He finally also runs out of ammo, taking cover again behind the knoll. The Spetsnaz return fire, unwilling to retreat, but there are only three of them left, and they prove to be less effective.

Crom continues to circle around the defensive line, now unleashing hell on the ORMO that stayed in their positions, with his AKM. Just about everyone now is grabbing whatever gun they can find that still has ammo. As if on cue, however, the forest to the South comes alive with zombies. At least a dozen come from the woods, running at the Spetsnaz, who are too occupied with trying to take out BatCar's gun, to see them coming, and in a horrific moment, it is over for them. With them eliminated, the remaining ORMO stop firing and surrender. Crom eliminates a few of the zombies, then Grey eliminates the rest. Tony has rearmed, after also running low on ammo, and leads the few remaining volunteers, and a few Gents, into the South forest, to provide a defensive line against the zombies.

Mr. Jinx and Shovel Guy start to clean up the wounded, and police the loose weaponry around the dead and dying ORMO and Spetsnaz. Mr. Blackout seems to fade into the shadows a bit, looking for Mosin ammo. He would have no trouble finding any, as the warehouse the Russians were guarding is full of Soviet era weaponry. The payoff for everyone is like a treasure trove of goodies, much of which is so rare anymore, that having access to a supply of pristine equipment is like a gift from the Gods.

Banksy and Craig help me down, and I hug them both. We did it, we secured the military site against a force that was probably the most powerful in Chenarus. It took everyone, doing what they do best, but in the end, we lost a lot, but not nearly as many as the Russian forces did. Those ORMO were damn tough and the Spetsnaz were as good as a dozen men each.

As we are walking towards the now assembled force, Dodger pulls Banksy aside, out of breath, she tells him about the laboratory to the North. He heads off with her, leaving me with Craig, who we both trust with our lives.

The evening is spent with each man taking his turn loot in the storage unit, all delighted with their loot. The night is less celebratory, as the dead are laid to rest. The Gents lost a few, the MRR lost more. However, everyone agrees that this military force was a credible danger to everyone, were they to project force, or to finish whatever research they were doing here. Clearly, they were up to no good, with how they destroyed the town of Dobroe.

The night is spent restlessly, with guards having plenty of opportunity to test their new weapons, on the dozens of zombies that keep stumbling into the base. None of them post a threat, considering the assembly of trained and experienced fighters we have. It seems a shame that such a force is destined to split up, because together, they could bring law and order to Chenarus, and eliminate any zombies that remain. Such a force, however, is just not to be.

I do not see Banksy much, and when he does return, he looks rattled. Dodger gives me a look as I am about to ask, and I shut my mouth. I guess he will tell me whats going on, when he is ready. As for Dodger, she spends some time with Shaun, talking about stuff that only they seem to know about. Lt. Waters and Mr. Jinx trade jokes, and discuss how they can work together to secure the North, and eventually drive the cannibals out. I wish them luck, but I feel left out, so I go off to climb up in the guard tower, to star gaze and try to make this all right in my head. I know that Dodger and Banksy and Shaun have been busy with these scientists, but they don't let me in on whats going on. I feel a bit disappointed, that this incredible journey, this insane mission I decided to take up, ends with me on the sidelines.

The next morning, I see BatCar for the first time since the fight. He and Tony and Grey were busy all night painting the tank, refueling it, and reloading the big gun on it. It is early when I see him climb into it, and start it up. As crazy as it sounds, he drives off in it as soon as its light enough to see, with a fucking Batman logo painted on the sides and front. I can't help but laugh so hard I nearly wet myself. He heads to the West, the direction he intended to go anyhow, before agreeing to this detour. I also see Grey and Craig walking off, cowboy hats on, rifles over their shoulders, like two gunslingers in a Western. I cant help but smile. Mr Blackout walks off on his own, fearless and singing... yea singing. Tony and Lt. Waters gather up the few volunteers left, and head back towards the MRR camp, pleased to have fresh weaponry, and only after I find out Dodger gave the Lieutenant one of the last operational satellite phones in Chenarus. With it, the MRR will have access to intelligence from outside Chenarus. I understand now, why he was willing to provide so much assistance. Between the pristine gear, and that phone, the MRR will be capable of expanding their area of influence. Mr. Jinx and Shovel Guy will appreciate being able to contact him wherever he may be. Which brings us to Shaun, who decides to go with the Gents, having chosen to join them. Once everyone else has departed, the Gents escorting all but one of the Scientists on the way back to Novo, Dodger, Banksy and the scientist sit down in one of the buildings, I'm allowed to attend.

 

“I still can not believe you are here Banks.” the scientist says to Banksy as I enter. I look over, understanding him. Dodger says something, and they continue the conversation in Russian, until finally, Banksy puts his hand up that he has heard enough. The Russian quits, and Dodger leads him away. I walk over and sit down by Banksy, taking his hand as he sits. I see him trying not to cry, and he turns to me and says, “Ellie... its all come back. I know everything.” he says to me. I blink, unable to think of what to say. Somehow, I think the answers we were seeking, were with us all the time. The look in his eyes, tells me, I'm right.


	13. Where Do We Go From Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the battle

A Survivors Story Chapter 13  
Chapter 13  
Where do we go from here?

We discuss many things before sleep overtakes us. Banksy has many secrets, but he tells me, he worked at a facility, with the other scientists. He was the youngest, and least enthusiastic about their research into the cause of the outbreak. What he does tell me, however, is disturbing.

The infected are not zombies, not proper zombies, at least. They are infected with some kind of organism of unknown origin, that acts much like Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, which is a spore that attacks ants. I know nothing about these things, but I remember something similar in a video game once. However, this is not that spore, it merely seems to have a similar process of how it takes over the victims brain. Apparently, this is a virus or some kind of teeny tiny little bug. The infected, they go through a fever, that is caused by their body trying to fight off the infection, however, it has no means to do so. The whatever it is, takes root in their brain stem, like a virus. It is in an area that the body can not really do anything to fight it in. The brain however, is mostly killed, and non essential functions are shut down as those parts of the brain become food for the whatever it is. That is why I smell the rotting. Body parts that are not essential to the whatever it is, simply cease to get any nourishment, and start to decay. Things like reproductive organs, digestive organs, anything that does not allow for movement, essentially, just cease to function, which is why they do not see so well. The eyes are controlled by part of the brain that the whatever it is, simply ignores, so in time they do not work well at all. The victim essentially is dead, brain dead, however, the body goes on as the unwilling host of this thing. The infected are driven to bite, since it is transmitted that way. However, the desire to bite is caused by the desire to feed, so they tend to try to devour whatever they see. The infected, as a result, can not be saved. Once they are infected, it is just a matter of time, before they develop the fever, which cooks the brain, and kills them, for the most part. So really, when we shoot them, we are only killing the whatever it is. I accept that.

He tells me that they tried to find some way to stop it, but it was wasted time, since they were under the impression it was a pathogen, then realized it was some kind of microbe, by then, the race to find a means to destroy it, was already lost. The CDC had essentially lost the war, before they fired the first shot. The French Health Ministry, however, identified the whatever it is in the early stages, by infecting pigs. The whatever it is, could not fully impact the pigs, and killed them. That was its fatal flaw. Of the people, and animals that are infected, most die from it, straight away. Only a small percentage of people infected, die before the fever cooks the vital parts of the brain, so the whatever it is, has no way to control the body after they die. This is why most of the population simply die when bitten. That was the good news, and they were able to get plenty of dead whatever it is, to experiment with. They finally discovered a combination of synthetic proteins that would seek out the whatever it is, attach themselves to it, and make it impossible for the whatever it is, to get into cells and stuff, to do whatever it does. That is the stuff I was injected with. That is the stuff, that was lost when Paris fell. That is the stuff that Banksy wants to extract a sample of, from me, so he can hopefully, create the anti-whatever it is, solution, and immunize what humans are left. To do that, however, means we have a new destination.

I hesitate but ask him, why did he not just say so. The story is very dark, and I understand now. He warned the others, that keeping live infected, was foolish. They could not hope to safely contain them indefinitely, and as it would happen, he was right. He left when the containment failed. Someone put out a radio signal, warning people that the facility had been compromised, but Banksy was in the lab, trying to get the others to safety, when he witnessed one of the other scientists families being eaten alive.

The horror of that moment, so preventable, something he had warned about, just over-whelmed him, and he fled the facility, with others. However, he could not come to face what had been done, and he simply woke up after running day and night for who knows how long, unable to remember anything. It all came back to him just a couple hours ago.

I sit beside him for the night, and we hold hands. I am not leaving him, I assure him. This is not his fault. They were trying to find a cure, it got loose, as it did everywhere. He tried to prevent it, but he was younger, and new, so they ignored him. I assure him, I understand. I get ignored all the time because of that too. He thinks it over, then nods, realizing, he and Dodger do that to me a lot. He apologizes, and its forgotten.

Dodger asks if we have to return to the facility, at a place called Green Mountain. Banksy nods, not looking at all pleased. She looks equally afraid. I have never seen Dodger look afraid, not like that. I feel my stomach turn, and suddenly, I am very afraid indeed.

We left the military base two days ago now, driving farther West, then we will turn South, trying to avoid what Dodger calls, No-Mans Land. She tells me that the entire distance we have traveled so far, is about how far we have yet to go, to get to Green Mountain. To get there, we will go through some of the worse infested areas, with entire military units of infected, entire major cities, and of course bandits and cannibals. We will be facing a greater danger to go there, than we have faced so far. I swallow, suddenly not so sure I really want to go there at all. Still, we have been driving for a couple days since the battle of the Northern Military Site. The truck is moving along slowly, and so noisy. Dodger says we should ditch it, before we go much farther, because it is only going to draw unwanted attention, that we can hopefully avoid on foot. Banksy reluctantly agrees.

We drive until we are near a town. Dodger says it is Kamensk. Banksy has no idea, but according to the map, it should be. I do not particularly care, aside from the fact that it is not a tiny town, and it poses a threat to us, on foot. We will pass through Kamensk, taking a smaller road on the Western side, to the South, which, unfortunately, will take us through some of the worst Chenarus has to offer. I find it almost ironic, that the road seems to terminate in Kabanino, which is just South of where this all started, at least, for me. After that we will follow a different road through some more smaller towns, till we turn to Green Mountain. So, that seems to be the plan.

As we arrive at Kamensk city limits, the signs are already bad. Apparently, to try to drive off the evil, the citizens had decided it would be a great idea, to crucify the infected, and so we pass along row after row of crosses, all still inhabited by howling, jaw snapping infected, announcing our arrival. So much for stealth.

Dodger scouts up ahead, leaving Banksy and I to walk quietly along. I scan up ahead from time to time through the scope of my rifle, catching a glimpse of Dodger now and then. She is so fast, so nimble, that I lose her after more than a second or two, and do not see her again until she crosses the street, or works her way around a ruined vehicle, to avoid infected. Finally, she comes to a house and goes inside. Banksy and I follow, also sneaking along the inside of a fence line that runs the length of most of the street.

We sneak across the street to the Southern side, joining Dodger. As we get into the house, she motions for us to stop. Her face says it all, we are made. The little town comes alive, from outside I hear one howl, then another and another. Soon it sounds like its from everywhere. She braces one door, while Banksy does so with another, and I turn around and lock and try to brace the door we came in. The streets start to fill with the infected, all howling and moaning, coming to the house. We each take a door and push against it as they stat to batter against the sides of the house.

We hold out for hours, but the wood is old and I hear Dodger swearing in a language I do not know, but I understand what shes meaning. We can not escape, and we can not hold them off for much longer. They can see us through the high windows, but thankfully, the infected can not climb through. They do, however, want to bite, and they are not going to just forget us so long as they can see us. We can not hide, we are in a very bad position. I have no idea how Dodger made this mistake, there had to be a reason she came to this house, but right now is NOT the time to discuss it.

As night falls, we are still holding the pieces of furniture and whatever else we could grab, blocking the doors, but I hear Banksy also saying that the wood is giving way. I tell them it is for me too, and we all look at each other, knowing that this is it. Dodger lets go of her bookcase long enough to check her Steyr. Banksy does the same, checking his AKM, so I check my rifle too. Then we come together, in the middle of the hallway, we hug, exchange kisses, then turn, each of us facing a door, and we wait. It will not be long now. Banksy tells me he is so sorry, but he has nothing to apologize for. Dodger also says that, but again, we all knew the risks. And then, the doors fail.

I had thought it would be different, like it would happen slower, but in an instant, my door failed. Just that fast, it was there, then it was full of infected. I fire my rifle, and it goes through the first three of them, killing them, but the next few are fast, and I draw my Makarov, firing head shots, and anything else, as fast as I can. But I am not alone, the door Banksy covered then crashes open, and his AKM lights up the room. Dodger starts firing as her door busts, and soon the night is like daytime, as we all are firing. They just keep coming, and we just keep firing, round after round. I empty my rifle, then the first three magazines of my Makarov. Dodger drops a magazine, then slams another one in, firing in a blur.

Banksy also does this, barely missing a beat, but still they come. It is only the pile of bodies they have to crawl over, that slows them. Those bodies are yanked aside, or torn apart in their rage to get to us. When I run out of magazines for my Makarov, Banksy kicks the MP5K he has to me. I just pick it up and start to fire. We must have killed dozens or more, I do not know, but we see no end of them, and more seem to be coming. “I'm low!” Dodger yells. “I'm out!” Banksy replies, switching to his pistol. Dodger finishes her magazine, then drops her rifle, also pulling up a pistol. I am pretty much out, when I hear something that sounds like thunder.

As my MP5 is choking on its last few rounds, we all hear an engine roaring outside. Then more thunder, as whatever it is, is blasting infected like crazy, then we see the rear end of the fucking BatCar push through the wall nearest to Dodger. The infected on her side are crushed under the tanks treads, and a hatch opens in back. A rather striking young girl leans out, firing a shorter looking AK. “Come with me!” she yells in a thick Russian accent. Banksy nods, and starts to throw the rifles and magazines we used into the tank. Dodger takes his pistol and starts to shoot double handed. I help Banksy then grab Dodgers shirt in back as I go by, to let her know we are into the tank. She follows, and the girl with the short AK is last in, blasting the last of her mag, before climbing in and slamming the hatch shut.

BatCar pulls us out of there, getting us the hell away from that death trap, and the infected are nothing more than an irritant to this metal behemoth. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Stephen, I do not believe we have met.” He yells back to me, smiling, as we drive off. “This is Svetlana, she is from the town you were in. We were just heading there when we saw you guys lighting up that house from about a mile or two off. Good lord what a show.” he laughs. Dodger makes her way up to the front where the driver sits, and puts her hand on his shoulder. “You did great Stephen, thank you. You saved our lives... again.” That is high praise from Dodger.

Svetlana smiles politely, pointing to the boxes that fill most of the back end of the tank. To be proper, I should point out, that the BatCar is not a proper tank, it is what is called an armored personnel carrier. This particular model is called a BMP-2. I have no idea what that means, but that is what I can tell by what Stephen says.

The infected finally give up the chase as we turn South, faster than they can run, and Svetlana and Dodger begin to reload magazines for the different weapons. I feel comfortable having my Makarov back, loaded, and ready. I can see that Dodger also feels better with a loaded gun, though in her case, she has to give up the Steyr, since Stephen has no ammunition for it. Instead, she gets an AK-74.

As we bounce along, he tells us how he found Svetlana wandering along the road. She had fled the little town after the outbreak, and was living off apples and some pond water. Now and then she would sneak into a town we are headed towards now, called Polesovo. She had encountered some Bandits that were looking for slaves to trade for weapons and food, with some cannibals to the South East. So, we now know there are bandits and cannibals this close. Well, not so many bandits now, Stephen killed the majority with his tank. Needless to say, Svetlana was delighted with this, and the fact that Steven is really cute probably had a lot to do with it. Suffice it to say, they decided to stay together. I think they make a cute couple.

We drive through the darkest part of the night, until he pulls over near some water. We make camp, stringing up some wire with tin cans on it, tossing some pebbles in the cans so if they move, they will make noise. Svetlana helps me prepare a small area to put the heating tablets so we can warm up some food. Stephen refills the tanks fuel, then refills the guns ammo. By the time Banksy and Dodger rejoin us, we are ready to eat. For the first time in a long time, I hear music, as Stephen has found an MP3 player and hooked it up to the electronics of his tank. I grab Banksy's hand and we dance, awkwardly at first. Stephen and Svetlana also dance, and I'm impressed by how good he is. Dodger doesn't dance, but she does smile, which is rare, and sits on the deck of the tank, holding her AK, standing guard. I can honestly say, I have never seen Dodger relax more than this.

I dance until I can not stand, then fall down, laughing, crying, shaking... The days in Chenarus are like that. One moment we are fighting to survive, terrified, and counting the final seconds of our lives, and the next, we are dancing with friends, eating a meager meal, and trying to pretend we are not thinking about the hell that tomorrow brings. Banksy understands and holds me while I cry. Dodger nods, but her face going stoic, as it does, and she keeps it inside. Svetlana and Stephen disappear into their section of the tank, and I am sure are doing what Banksy and I had, before the attack on the military base. For Banksy and I, the night is spent just holding each other. Many “I love you”s are exchanged, as we kiss and hold each other. We are helpless, trapped in this fucking insane asylum, with no escape, and no idea when, or if, it will ever end. We try not to say the words, but chances are, when it does end, it will end much like today, in that house, only there won't be a BatCar to rescue us.

The night seems to last forever, and I fall asleep in his arms, cried out, and finally able to rest. My nerves are so frayed that even in my sleep, I am haunted by the infected. Banksy holds me tight, soothing my night terrors, and trying to nurse me through.

 

By the early hours, I wake finally. Banksy now rests on my arm. The morning air smells good, and I watch the shadows paint patterns across his face. Dodger is already awake, drinking coffee, and heating up something to eat. From inside the tank, Stephen and Svetlana are dressing, and the morning is about to begin. We know they intend to head East, so once we are ready to go, we will be saying our goodbyes, but for the few hours till then, I feel somehow at peace. I suppose that is the legacy of Chenarus. What it is doing to us, we may never know, not until we escape this place. I just hope the mental and emotional destruction is something we can overcome, and not pass along to the future. That is, if there is a future to be had.


	14. Last Plane Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separated again

A Survivors Story Chapter 14  
Chapter 14  
Last Plane Out

I lose track of how many days we walk. It seems forever. Sometimes we walk quickly, others, we creep along in the mud and sludge as the rain pours it's fury down upon our weary shoulders. It is as if Chenarus itself is doing all it can, to delay us, and keep us that extra moment or two. Dodger insists, this is the last walk we will do on this fucking ground. While at Sanctuary, she made contact with the last surviving UN outpost in the area. Most all others have already moved to Ithaca, where I was supposed to be by now.

Apparently, she arranged for the last cargo flight from their base, to Ithaca, but it will not wait. Either we make it there on time, or we get left behind. There will not be another. So Dodger insists we must move with great haste. Several times we even risk a herd of Infected, as they stagger along, going from wherever, to wherever, with no discernible reason. However, we are on a count down, and Dodger checks her watch routinely.

We do finally arrive at a small flat strip within view of where this all started for me. I have come back to the Air Field. Because of the sheer number of zombies at the Air Field, though why they insist on staying there none of us can really guess, we dare not go there until the last minute. Instead, we take turns standing guard, while the others try to nap. This is very difficult. Were we not half collapsed from exhaustion, none of us would bother. However, the march here in this bitterly cold rain, has left us all in a near state of coma. We are all shivering, and wet, trying to lay on what is very soaked ground, near the small butane heating stove, when it is our turn.

I complain, but it does no good, and Dodger quickly points out that the rain works to our advantage. The Infected seem to be less capable of hearing or seeing us in this dark driving rain storm. They may not even hear the plane until it is approaching. That means fewer of them to fight our way through to get there. I can appreciate that. I hold my tongue and endure the storm for another 17 hours, until we hear it. I think it may be thunder, but then realize, it is the low rumble of multiple large propeller engines coming quickly from the North West. Dodger waits until they drop a green flare, then she lights a yellow flare and waves it three times, stops, then once more. Then we gather up our gear, most of which we never unpacked, and we make our mad dash to the Air Field. This is it! We are going!

The plane arrives just before we do, and rumbles down the air strip, absolutely destroying Infected in its path, as it lands. Then it circles around at the end and starts back towards us. Dodger lifts her pistol and starts carefully shooting Infected in the head, as they come near us. Banksy tries to do the same with his AK, and does seem to knock them back enough for us to make our way to the plane as it stops and the side door opens.

I am so giddy, I am bouncing up and down, I'm so ready to get the hell out of here. I hate this place! A crew man climbs down a short ladder that descends as the door opens. He salutes Dodger, then shakes Banksy's hand. The Infected, however, are not willing to just stand by and watch, and start to come for us. He pulls Dodgers arm a bit so he can talk to her in private, and she nods, turning towards us. “OK, bad news, I'm afraid. This plane is loaded to the limit with medical equipment and fuel. The crew chief says he only thought he was taking one more, me, so he cant take us all. I told him about Banksy being on the team that was near finding a cure, and he is willing to take him as well, but they wont make it there with all of us. He is fairly sure it will make it with two of us, and in this case it is worth the risk.” she says shaking her head sadly.

Banksy starts to object, but I don't give him the chance, and push him into the arms of Dodger, then turn and run off, down the strip. Behind me I can hear the crew chief and Dodger dragging him aboard the plane. “Ellie! There is an island on the North East coast! Its called Skalisty Island. There is a pier there! I will find a boat, I WILL COME FOR YOU! I SWEAR! Wait for me, when the sun is at its highest, I WILL COME FOR YOU!” he screams as they close the door. If there is a hope for the future, it lies with them. The plane won't leave without her, and the world may never return to anything like it was, without him. I have never been important. Besides, I am immune to the Infection, so I stand the best chance of survival.

The Infected are drawn towards the noise of the plane, and seem disinterested in me, which is good. I am down to just my Makarov and could not hold this many off for long. I might be immune, but I am still kill-able and they can still eat me. I look up only when I see the plane taking off, and watch it fly over head. The last flight out of North West Air Field.

After the plane has left the area, the Infected return to their normal behavior, so I waste no time making my way South, through the pouring rain. It is dawn before I finally collapse in a barn.

The morning brings a small break from the rain, long enough for me to go to the bathroom in peace, and at least feel warm for the first time, as I strip down to my undies, and just let the sun shine on me as I stand in the doorway. I must look foolish, in wet boots, and underwear, but my clothes are hanging to dry, and I have nothing else to wear, since we were traveling light, to get to the plane on time. My pack holds just a couple of canteens, which the rain filled, and a few cans of food, and my map and compass. I still have a few magazines of ammo for the Makarov, but not much. When the clouds start to return, it gets cooler, and I return to put my clothes back on, and then consult the map. I find the island, just as Banksy said, it is off the very South Eastern coast. It figures. It couldn't be farther away from me. It will take me a long time to reach it. Most likely, at least two months. Probably three, as slow as I will have to be, to get through some of the most infested towns in Chenarus, to get there. If I follow the roads, along the coast, I will have to make it through Chernogorsk and Elektrozavodsk. They are the two largest cities on the South coast, and from what I have heard in my travels here, are as dangerous from bandits, as they are from Infected. If I turn and go directly South East, I might pass through Stary Sobor and Novy Sobor, which are far less dangerous, but no less a risk. After them, it will be fairly clear running, but that also takes me directly back into the very Bandits that Banksy and I were running from to begin with. Well, there is no avoiding danger in Chenarus, so I decide to just head South, then follow the coast, since my ability to navigate the length of Chenarus cross country, is sketchy at best. As bad as I am, I would likely miss Skalisty altogether, and end up back up the coast somewhere around Solnichniy, then turn and go back up the coast to Berezino, and never find the island.

I start off walking slowly, conserving my energy, but then the rain suddenly stops, just as suddenly as it started, and the soggy ground slowly starts to harden, letting me pick up my pace. I am glad, because, being somewhere, anywhere, is better than traveling. The sooner I get to the island, the better, and there is damn few chances to get around this shit hole, without walking. That is fine, I can walk, I have for how long now?

It is almost a week later, maybe a day more, when I finally reach somewhere that looks like it will have food. This is good, I ate the last of my canned food two days ago, and am really hungry. This little farm community, Rogovo, seems fairly picked over, but I risk it anyhow. I do manage to find a well, which I refill my now empty canteens from, and then I set off to search the few houses that look less picked over. How does one tell a well picked over house from a less well picked over house? I can't really explain it. Maybe you can figure it out for yourself, if you are ever in Chenarus.

I find absolutely nothing in most of them, before finding an old box of cereal in a bedroom, stashed in a closet among some old boots and torn pants. The cereal is stale, and tasteless, but I eat it anyways. It is good, and fills my empty tummy. Well... mostly empty. I am eating for two now, it seems. Lucky me. As if my life can't get any more complicated.

I abandon the little community and keep walking South, following the road, but not actually on the road. It brings me to the Northern edge of Pogorevka. It is a larger community, and I can see bandits all over in its buildings. They are burning fires, and I can see Infected traps along the streets. They have claimed this down from the Infected, but I wonder what it cost them to do so. I am sure many people died in the fighting. I am sure many more die all the time. The place seems lawless to me, as I watch from the tree line on a hill. To my left, I can see an outpost, where they have set up a guard post, to prevent someone from doing exactly what I am doing. Fortunately for me, the guards look more bored than vigilant, and it allows me to get close enough to discern that this is no place for me. I will have to go around, and stay clear.

It takes me another day and a half to skirt the town, not because it is large, it is not, but because there are so many Infected around, and I have to be so very careful, to not end up dead. That seems to be the primary motivation for those of us left. Just to survive. Every day we go on, but it never does answer the burning question. Not how this happened, or why, that really does not matter anymore. No, it begs the question, why? Why do we do it? Why do we go on? This is not going away, not in our lifetimes. This will not end before our lives do. So what is it we are looking for? What do we think we will find, down the next street, around the next corner, in the next day, or week? What do we think we will find, that we did not already find, yesterday, or the yesterdays before? What makes each today a reason to even try? I can't answer that. Every step, I find less and less reason to go on, except for the little life inside me, that Banksy and I created. For me, this is all I can hold onto. I have a life that depends on me. So this alone, is why I keep putting one foot down, after the last.

I am exhausted, and starving by the time I arrive at a little house. It has been so heavily used, as a way point, that I am afraid to go to it, but instead, I find a tree. I climb up into it, and again, strap myself in, and go to sleep. The night comes again, and I shiver and try to rest, hoping the nightmares leave me alone, long enough to sleep at least a little. It has been so long since I have really slept, that I am not sure what is real, and what is just fantasy. Nothing seems real, it is like I am watching a movie, but somehow the character does what I want. I am starving, I know, the single half box of cereal was not enough to sustain me, and I need to eat.

The next day, I come down, and again, start to walk. By now, I lose track of time, and I honestly can not tell you how long I stagger on, until I find a few dead bodies. It looks like bandits got to them. They are stripped of boots, packs, guns... everything that was of value. I sit by the corpses, talking to them as if they are alive. My conversation is non-sense, and confused, but somehow it seems important. I am not sure why, but I reach over and make a point of burying a pair of glasses one of them was wearing. I can not tell you why that was important for me to do, but I did it.

I get up and walk on, numb, and cold. I lost the road, somewhere after the dead people. Then somehow I stumble back onto a path. I follow it, in a strange rambling way. I switch back a few times, and circle around at least once, before I finally find myself at the entrance of a hunting shack. Te rain is now lighter, but no less bitterly cold, so I find myself driven inside. I collapse and sleep, screaming out my fears as night terrors take me again and again. Finally, I guess even they grow weary, and let me be at least a few hours, and I sleep.

The sun is shining. I lift my head with weary arms, propping myself up on elbows. There is someone here. I start, reaching for my Makarov, but it is gone. I am stripped down to nothing, but am covered in a blanket. There is a heating stove burning near us, and it warms the hunting shack. The figure turns, smiling at me. “Hello, you OK?” they ask. I swallow, feeling the fear in my throat. I nod slowly, fearfully.

“It's OK, my name is Lottie, I found you here, half dead. I figured you needed some help. So, I got you out of those cold wet things, and under a blanket. If I had not found you, I think you would have died. When is the last time you ate something?” she asks in a very nice voice.

“I don't know.” I say honestly. She hands me a cup of what I discover to be real coffee. I blink a few times, wondering if this is real. But I drink it regardless. Coffee... OK, another reason to go on living.

“I made up some eggs and bacon. The eggs are fresh, got them from a hen a couple hours ago, the bacon is from a can. Eat as much as you like.” she says kindly. I accept a plate, but try to slow myself from eating too fast.

“Thank you Lottie, my name is Ellie. I am glad you found me.” I say between mouthfuls. I will say this much for Lottie, she can cook bacon and eggs like a chef, or having a hot meal just tastes great no matter who makes it. Either way, it tastes like heaven, and I don't normally eat meat. In this case, however, my little embryo needs nourishment, and I am going to eat whatever I must, to give it every chance at life.

“You sound like you've been through hell. Your nightmares are pretty intense. You going to be OK?” she asks concerned. I stop eating just long enough to nod. I can't imagine how anyone can sleep anymore, without them. The fact that she does not seem to get them, surprises me. Maybe I am just weaker than everyone here. Then, it hits me like a slap in the face, she speaks English. Not like American, but proper English. She must be from the UK.

“You are not from here. You sound English.” I say. She nods. I smile. She heaps more on my plate, and I don't argue. I am starved, and this food is the best thing ever. Eventually, though, I feel full, and Lottie takes my plate, scoops some off onto hers, and finishes it as I get dressed. My clothes are dry, and feel so good and warm on me, I am in bliss, as much as one can be, in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

“I came here as past of the security force for Green Mountain. I guess, like most of the team, I got separated when it fell apart, and since then, I have been hunting bandits.” she says proudly. I smile. It is good to know she is one of the good guys. There are so few left. So many turned to their worst instincts, using the crisis as an excuse to act out their most savage fantasies.

“My plane crashed. I have been wandering around since then, I am on my way to an island, off the coast. I heard it is fairly safe there.” I say probing to see if she is interested in going along with me. She says nothing while she eats and thinks. It is a terribly English way to be. They often grow quiet as they think.

“Well, I don't see why I can't at least check it out.” she says. I smile. Good, I would not likely survive alone. The distance is far greater than anything I have ever done alone, and the odds of survival are way worse than anything I have faced so far.

 

We gather up her gear, and she shows me that she made me a little makeshift pack. Together, we gather up the food, the cooking stuff, and head out. We plan to head more or less due East, trying to cut across the land North of the big cities, and avoid them. There are some small little farm towns along the way, where we might find more food. Neither of us are well armed. She has an ax and a bolt action rifle and a .357 magnum. I have only my Makarov, which she returns to me. We open the door to the little hunting shack, taking in the cool morning air, and start our trek. We will probably take a few months to get there, but we have a destination, and we have each other to depend upon. In Chenarus, that is more than most can say, and it is maybe, just maybe, enough to get us there. I just hope that this island is really safe, and can support us, until Banksy can arrive with a ship, to take us away from this hell hole, and to Ithaca. I will be counting the days, and waiting for him, every day when the sun is at its highest, just like he said.


	15. The Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding in my car...

A Survivors Story Chapter 15  
Chapter 15  
The Gauntlet

Lottie and I walk for a couple days before we come across a small camp site. The skeletons testify that the campers were happened upon by Infected, if their twisted limbs and remains of torn clothing are any indication. Their gear is left, which is actually good for us. Lottie finds a set of binoculars and a couple packets of powdered milk. I find a few rounds for my Makarov and three cans of Pipsi. Lottie and I each drink one, keeping one possibly as trade, or to celebrate arriving at Skalisty.

As I take down the small tent they had, Lottie calls me over, pointing to where they had hidden a very beat up looking compact car. It has larger tyres, as if it was set up for rougher roads. She tells me that is it four wheel drive. In Chenarus, most vehicles are designed to function equally well on or off road, and this model compact car, is very popular for its ability to go off road, to a degree. Of course, the battery is dead when she tries it, but we do manage to push it started, and let it run to charge the battery, while we put the tent and our packs into the back seat. This little car will shorten the time it takes to get to the island significantly, assuming we do not get killed as we drive. That is almost as dangerous as walking.

She drives because I have no idea what road to take. So I spend my time looking nervously out the windows, holding my pistol ready. Banksy, Dodger and I had been ambushed enough while driving, that I know how fast it happens, and if you are not ready to go right then, you will never get time to react later. Lottie seems less worried, but I do not know her well enough to know if this is good or not. After an hour, we turn onto what appears to be a paved road, and head South, into Chernogorsk. We plan to race as fast as we can through the city, and along the coast line. Lottie thinks we have enough gas to at least make it to one of the filling stations along the coast. We might find some petrol at one of them. The odds are fairly low, these days, any petrol someone finds, is typically in a can in some garage or shed, long forgotten and unreliable. Quite normally, if you find a vehicle like this one, what you have in it, is all you will ever have. As a result, most people simply drive vehicles until they are disabled, or out of petrol. The odds are, this one will not make it to the coast where we will leave to go to the island. It will likely die somewhere along the road. Still, if it can get us through Chernogorsk, then it will have done us a huge favor.

We speed into the upper section of Chernogorsk, which sits upon a hill over looking the city proper. In the distance, we can see the high rise apartment blocks, as well as the power lines that lead gracefully down into the lower section which runs the length of the coast as far as I can see, in either direction. There is smoke rising from dozens of fires, and we can hear gun shots. Many times, it is automatic gunfire, and it is clear that there is some kind of fight raging in different sections of the city. Lottie informs me that different clans are fighting over turf. They always do. We both chalk it up to male testosterone. Guys seem to really enjoy fighting. Give a guy a choice between sleep and security, or porn and guns, you can guess which choice he will make.

She stops the little car behind a house on the very far end of the road that leads into Chernogorsk. We spend the next few hours tearing moldy old bed sheets into strips, and lashing whatever we can find, onto the outside of the car. Before we leave, it has the door to a refrigerator tied to the bonnet, two of the big thick oak doors tied to the sides of the car, and the roof of a storage shed folded over twice, tied to the boot. It is not exactly what one would call armored, or stealthy, but it is better protection than nothing at all. Lottie can barely see to drive and I can not see at all. Instead, we fold the seat down and I lay down, basically, with the guns, ready to hand her whatever she asks for, should she need to shoot. I defer to her there, being part of Dodger's security team, I know she can shoot. I, on the other hand, can not. I believe I have proven that numerous times.

She speeds into Chernogorsk and immediately, we start to get shot at by snipers. They are after the wheels, or engine, or driver, whatever target they think they can get. Lottie is very well skilled at driving like this, and weaves and dodges around on the road, and sometimes off it. The bullets strike at the thick oak doors, occasionally piercing them, and thudding on the thick steel of the doors. One or two actually get past and I see a hole in the dashboard from one, and another tears a hole in the back seat. The round barely misses my head, and I duck a little further down. I can hear the dinging of rounds bouncing off the folded steel tied to the back, and sometimes the very distinct dull thud of them hitting the refrigerator door. Still, the little car drives on. Lottie is singing as she drives... singing... yes, like a song. “Driving, driving in my car, going very far, down the street in my car. Driving, driving in my car, feeling like a star, bouncing down the street in my car. Driving, driving in my car, turn the handle bar, speeding down the street in my car. Yeah, woo hoo! Bouncing on a bumpy road, stopping for a hopping toad, going to my favorite park, hurry before it gets dark, in my car, in my car. Driving, driving in my car, going very far, down the street in my car. Driving, driving in my car, feeling like a star, bouncing down the street in my car. Driving, driving in my car, turn the handle bar, speeding down the street in my car. Vroom! Vroom! Hootin' tootin' on the horn, driving round from dusk till dawn, going near and going far, I'm a superstar, whoo! In my car, Vroom! Vroom! In my car. Driving, in my car. Driving, in my car. Driving, in my car. Driving.”

I just look at her like shes nuts. I imagine those that we pass, if they can hear her, must assume she is mad. Not just a bit off, but so far off her rocker, that shes just plain nuts. I really can't discuss it with her, she is a bit busy at the moment, getting us through the barrage of gun fire. I can just imagine trying to get through here on foot. As many snipers as seem to be shooting at us, I doubt very seriously, I would have made it this far at all.

We actually survive the upper section of town, though a few snipers are still firing at the back of the car, but their rounds are not penetrating the folded metal tied to the back. Lottie makes her way into the lower portion of the city, where we discover a hoard of Infected milling about. They seem drawn to the car's noise, and her singing, I guess. Lottie ends up plowing over several of them, and just glancing a few more off the wooden sides of our little tank. We mash through them, and come under automatic gun fire from what seems to be an M-4. Lottie later tells me, she was glad it was just an M-4 because a heavier round might have seriously penetrated the refrigerator door, and taken out the engine. I am glad she did not tell me at this time, because I am busy trying to not wet myself. Ignorance is bliss, or in this case, ignorance is NOT piss. Sorry, had to be said.

We get more shots as we race through town, and the engine finally takes a hit. She curses as the front starts to steam, and she informs me that if we make it outside the city limits, we are most definitely on foot after this. I am actually rather preferring that at the moment, because I have taken a disliking to being the main event at sniper haven. For Lottie, I suppose this is just something she trained for and finds challenging and exciting. I, on the other hand, find it terrifying and hope I never have to do this again.

Little car makes it to the city limits and just beyond before it makes a very loud grinding noise and the wheels lock up. She skids to a stop near what looks to be some kind of factory, and we both cut the ropes on the coast side of the car, away from the hills and factory. The massive oak door drops to the ground, and I can see dozens of holes in it, and the same number of dents in the thick metal door. It wont open, having had the insides shot to pieces, I am sure, but we can climb out through the, now, empty windows. I climb out and she hands me the packs and the tent, and then climbs out as some sniper starts to take shots at the car. She grins, seeing oil coming from under the car and lights it on fire, torching the car, but also making a big smoke cloud that hides our run to the coast line and down the sea wall.

We walk along, wearing our packs, and each taking an end of the tent. It is heavy. It is not that the tent is large, or made of heavy material, it is because the material is very wet. Also, I am sure, it is because we are both exhausted from the adrenaline rush of the gauntlet we just drove through, and the fact that we made it. We are through the first of two large cities, and at this point, doing OK.

The gunfire behind us fades into the crashing waves and the sea breeze. Gulls cry out, searching for food. We walk closer to the sea, near the seawall and I can smell the water, feel the cool breeze on my face. For a little while, I can almost forget I am struggling to survive, lost in a strange land, pregnant, and hunted by both Infected and bandit alike. For a little while, it is almost easy to forget the cannibals, the rapists, the Infected, the murderers... its almost pleasant.

Lottie finally has us head over to a house along the seawall and we go inside, dropping our heavy tent. I am so glad, my arms feel like lead weights. Outside the clouds are forming up. It is going to start raining again. It is also getting dark, and we do not want to be outside at night. We spend the early evening moving anything heavy to block the doors and windows. Then we light the butane burner and heat up a can of beans and make some tea. Lottie says she will take first watch, because I'm still a bit weak from having nearly died. That kind of thing takes it out of you, you know. We spend some time talking, mostly about Dodger and Banksy and Green Mountain. When I say we talk, I really mean Lottie talks, and I listen. She actually knows a lot, and I learn more from her than I ever did from either Dodger or Banksy. I always adored Dodger, but hearing how she saved the majority of people at the lab, and set up the radio signal to warn people off, I now respect her even more. She then set up groups of her security team to stay in areas of interest, monitoring and reporting back on their secure frequency. I now understand how and why she seemed so well informed, and I wonder if her meeting us was coincidence or planned. Still, the fact she is out there, watching over Banksy, gives me hope.

I fall asleep quickly after she makes it clear we are done talking. It is cold and we do not keep the burner lit any longer than necessary, so it grows dark quickly. I shiver a bit, trying to get warm under the moldy, smelly old blankets we found. Finally it gets warm under them, and I nod off into a restless and troubled sleep. I do not recall what I dream, but I am sure it was filled with pain and sadness. My dreams always are filled with pain and sadness anymore. Life in general is full of that. That, I suppose, is how it is when you go from top of the food chain, to... wherever humans are in it now.

Lottie wakes me later, and I am groggy but sip some very cold and now bitter tea, to wake up. My eyes burn a bit, and I am back to shivering, but Lottie deserves her rest too, after all she has done for me. So I take my Makarov out and sit on the floor, watching the shadows pass as Infected wander past the house. Because we are not clearly visible, or making noise, they just walk on. I again wonder just what drives them to wander around. Sometimes it almost seems like they are organized and heading for a particular destination, like when they are in a herd. Other times, it is one or two just standing in the middle of a field, like they forgot what to do. I suppose someday, maybe, scientists will study them enough to explain away these strange behaviors, but until then, nobody knows.

Close to dawn, I hear the door knob to the back door rattle. Someone pushes against it a little, trying to shove their way in. I quietly wake Lottie, and we both cover the doors. After a few minutes, we see a straggly looking old man make his way into the house. He sees us and freezes for a second, then slowly turns, closes the door, then turns to face us.

Lottie speaks first, in barely more than a whisper. “What do you want?” she demands from the old man. I feel sympathy for him. He looks half starved and it must be horrible to be so alone.

“Please... kill me.” he says somberly. I blink a few times, unsure I heard him correctly. Lottie looks at him, then at me, then back at him, as if she too was unsure of the request. “I am Infected, I can feel it in my head... I don't have long, and I wont end up like them. I can't kill myself, its a sin, so please, kill me.”

I shrug, so Lottie takes a knife out of her boot and walks to him, putting her gun on a table where neither of them can get to it easily. Even now, she is careful to be sure a stranger does not take her weapon. She was definitely trained by Dodger. I can't believe this is happening. I am frozen in shock as she puts a hand on his shoulder, helping him to his knees. Then she slices his throat from ear to ear in a motion so fast and so well aimed, that he barely reacts. Blood pours from his neck. I am not sure if you have ever seen someone get their throat cut in real life, not like a movie, but it really sprays all over. It is a messy affair, and the victim does not just slump over and die like you see in movies. He holds his throat, gurgling and thrashing a bit as he weakens and falls back onto his back. His legs kick and he looks like he is trying to speak, but just gurgles till the air in his lungs is gone. Thne he just goes still, as the blood stops flowing to his brain. He seems to go to sleep or something, as he gets quiet and still, then... he is just gone. Dead.

Lottie wipes her knife off on part of his pants, then puts it away. “C'mon, we have to get going.” she says quietly. I stand there, stoopified. My brain just is not registering this. Lottie finally comes over and gives me a light slap on the cheek and I start to move again. I have not seen death like this. I have seen a lot of death, especially since the helicopter crashed, but this is something new and horrific.

I start to pack up the gear, robotic and numb. Lottie explains that the smell of fresh blood will draw the Infected. We need to go now before a herd comes by and we are next. It sounds right to me, and we start to drag the tent along, but after a few minutes, she suggests we abandon it. I don't argue with that, and we make better time. As we crest a smaller hill, I look back and see the house we left is being swarmed by Infected. She was right. It only took about a half hour for them to gather there for a feast.

Lottie and I stay down by the beach. The Infected do not seem to like water. They do not come near the beach unless they are after someone. So as a result, we feel a bit safer. The bandits seem to be content to travel the roads, looking for travelers. We walk all morning, taking a break in the early afternoon, to eat some berries and apples. I find a well and we drink until we feel satisfied. Lottie turns up three bottles. We rinse them out, then fill them with water, adding them to our small packs.

 

We walk further until it starts to get late, but by then we can see the skyline of Elektrozavodsk in the distance. We might make it there tomorrow. If not tomorrow, certainly early the day after. Fortunately the two cities were fairly close to each other, but that also means we are near the most dangerous part of our trip together. Getting through Elektrozavodsk alive will be the biggest challenge we face together yet. Neither of us are sure how we will do it, and we don't really want to discuss it. Maybe it is better to talk about it closer to the city, when we can really get a good feel for what we are going to be going through. Well, at least that is how I feel.


	16. The Forlorn Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting our alive?

A Survivors Story Chapter 16  
Chapter 16  
The Forlorn Hope

I have heard, that in the British Army, there is, or was, a rule that whoever is first into the enemy fortification, gets instant promotion, no questions asked. This was the Forlorn Hope. It was a way for a soldier to gain recognition and rise through the ranks. It was also amazingly dangerous and usually fatal. While this is a rather ingenious way to motivate men to charge the enemy, it seems very sad to me. I suppose it was sad for them too, considering the name they gave this. Still, I can understand the motivation, the desire to become more than what you are, through a great act of courage and sacrifice. What I do not understand though, is why Lottie and I are doing the same thing. We are not going to be remembered, or rise above anything. We are nobodies, in a world gone mad. Nobody will ever know the events of my life. This whole insane journey will amount to nothing. The only reward I have is the baby I carry, and the hope that one day, when the sun is at the highest, Banksy will come deliver me from this hell.

Lottie lays next to me in some grass on a knoll overlooking the distance between us and Elektrozavodsk. It looks to be the better part of a days walk. We should make the edge of the city by nightfall. The travel won't be as hard as travel up in the Northern territories. The land here is more flat. This will make getting there easier to do, yet far more dangerous. The rolling hills up North, allowed for chances to walk without being seen by anyone, or anything. Often we were able to walk along for hours at a time, unseen by anyone, and unafraid. Unless some Infected came over a hill, we were fairly safe.

Along the coast line, there is no such cover or concealment so we will be exposed and vulnerable the entire trip. We decide to stay by the sea wall, hoping that the water will prevent most of the Infected from coming after us, and also that none of the bandits will be thinking to look out at the water for victims. We are so poorly armed, that we would offer no challenge to the far better armed bandits. Even through the night and up till this very moment, we hear automatic guns shooting. It is almost exclusively AK's and MP5's. I have gotten to know the sounds of the gunfire, and can tell them even at a distance.

I had thought that my post high school years would be spent going to concerts, dancing at clubs, partying with friends, and spending time on the beaches of the world. I had no idea how I would be spending my time on a beach in a largely unimportant land, here in Europe. Of course, I never thought I would be pregnant at this age either, and honestly, the thought of being helpless as I get into my late pregnancy scares the hell out of me. I will be nearly incapable of evading or fighting the Infected, so getting to Skalisty Island is absolutely the most important thing I can do. The chances of it being over run with Infected are fairly low.

We walk for hours, stopping to rest a few times, drinking or eating on the march. We do see Infected, farther inland, wandering to and fro. They do not see us at this range, or have no interest in coming this close to the water. Dodger assures me, if they saw us, they would come. So we keep our distance, moving slowly when exposed, and trying not to make noise or draw their attention. The miles feel heavy on my shoulders, and I am worn out by the time we arrive on a grassy hill top outside Elektrozavodsk. My boots are starting to come undone, having put more miles on them than they were ever designed for. I end up using some duct tape we find, to wrap them up to keep them together long enough to get to Skalisty. My life is like that, really, held together by bits and pieces I find along the way. Pieces of the sole are missing, bits broken off, others torn off. They are stained and torn, frayed at the edges. I suppose Forrest Gump was right, you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes. I spend the night rubbing my sore feet and trying to get to sleep, but I am both excited that we are nearing the final stretch of this stupid trip, and also terrified that this last section is going to be the most dangerous.

Our plan works at first. We enter the city by the waterfront, climbing over a broken pier, making our entry into a warehouse area. There are several massive shipping cranes along the cement sea wall. They look as if they have not moved in years. The warehouses are long ago looted, and by the time we enter the closest, it is so empty, that we consider it a waste of time. We only walk by, looking in at the empty shelving, the empty pallets, and the ruins of many campfires and of course, the decaying corpses. Everywhere in Elektrozavodsk seems to smell like the rot of death.

Lottie takes the lead, maneuvering us through the open spaces tactically. I trust her because Dodger trusted her. She seems to have a keen sense of where to go, often passing by paths I would have taken, which later turn out to be very bad. She eventually brings us to another abandon camp site. This one is more recent.

She pauses, as the morning light becomes noon, and our shadows grow small. This means we also have no shadows to hide in, and are more exposed.  
She crawls over to the fire, touching a piece of the burned wood. She crawls back to me, where I huddle between a bush and a piece of broken wall. “Bad news, recent activity, within the hour. I saw human bones, and there was some remains of internals. I think we have cannibals in the area.” she says as she checks her pistol. I nod, sadly. I also check my pistol and discover it had slipped down into my pocket too far. If I had needed to pull it out, it would have taken me far too long. I take it out, holding it in my palm, like I have so many times. It feels like an old friend, but I hope that one day I will be able to part ways with it. I hope I am not faced with a future where I pass this along to my son, training him to kill in order to survive. I hope, perhaps forlornly that he will not grow up in a world with the Infected, and bandits, and the smell of rotting death as common as the depression that seems to permeate the very air we breath. The grips are so worn, the logo on the side is no longer visible. The plastic grips are cracked, pieces broken off. The metal is scratched, small nicks along the top. The sights are banged up, and I am not entirely sure are as reliable as they should be. The slide is loose, rattles a bit if shaken. The magazines I have are so worn, so well used, that the springs in them are weak, and someday it will probably fail to load the bullets properly. However, this little pistol has gotten me through so much, that I would thank it over and over, were it a person. I can think of many a time, that it was the singular factor that kept me alive.

There is quite a large expanse of empty ground from this particular section of Elektrozavodsk, where the dock work goes on, and the city proper. Where we are, there is a artificial breaker wall, that allows for safe shipping. However, on the city proper section, it is open to the sea, and will be louder. This will cover our noise, however, the beach stretching along that coast is far more empty. We will be forced to go into the city itself, to find cover. Dodger insists we must go into Elektrozavodsk for supplies. I will not argue with her. We are nearly out of food and our canteens are empty.

We follow the little road inland till it meets with the tracks. There is a wall along one side, which provides some concealment but no cover, if we get shot at. As Dodger would say, “This is a very bad situation.” Lottie keeps an eye out and we make it to the railroad tracks. They are raised up a bit, providing a little cover. We crouch walk along it, ready to drop down at first noise or movement. The first house we come to, is, as you would expect, completely looted, however, the well pump in back works. I start towards it, but Lottie stops me with her hand on my arm. She puts a finger over my lips to shut me up, then points to the dark stains on the ground around it. Someone is, or was, camping out this spot, shooting people that go to use the well. I ease back behind the wall, looking around to see where someone could get a good shot at it. Lottie points to what looks like a Tek building on the far side of the tracks. I nod, realizing that this could have ended me.

She goes back into the house and pushes an old bed in front of a front window, so it obscures us behind it. She takes out some binoculars and scans the roof top of the Tek building. Sure enough, there are three people on the top and it looks like they are camped out. “I bet those are our cannibals.” she says nearly spitting out the word cannibal. Like me, she finds them despicable and unacceptable. I am sure she has lost someone to cannibals, by the way she hates them. I hate them too, because humans that become Infected, it is the Infection that makes them do it, they are mindless and driven by the virus or whatever it is. Humans that just kill and eat people are lower life forms than the Infected. They have the choice, and they do it anyhow. Its beyond sick. “We need to kill them.” she says solemnly. “We need that water, and we need their weapons, if we are to make it through Elektrozavodsk.” I nod, agreeing, because I know the amount of Infected alone, are beyond what we can handle with the few rounds we have for two pistols.

“OK, here's the plan. You and I will sneak over to that Tek building. You go inside and when I tell you to, we are going to torch it.” she tells me. I nod, and we drop our packs, hiding them under the rotting sheets and mattress. Lottie leads me along some higher grass, until we can cross the tracks between two rail cars. There are a few houses between us and the Tek building, so we have some cover for now.

We sneak along fences and bushes until we get to the large fence that surrounds the Tek building. Inside the fence, we can see lots of Infected. They are feasting on bones, throw over the side by the cannibals. I look at Lottie in horror, wondering how we will ever get close, until she points out, the Infected are tied and chained in place around the building. The cannibals are using them to prevent someone from doing exactly what we are planning on doing. I still do not see how we are going to get inside, until Lottie points to a dumpster. “Fancy a ride?” she asks grinning. I am lost, unable to follow her meaning.

Because of their Infected watch dogs, the cannibals are slack in their security, and do not notice us as we climb into one of the smelly old trash bins. Lottie takes a broom stick she found, and pokes it out a little access panel, and pushes us along towards the building. The Infected so not recognize us as food and pay no attention to us. The long slow roll across the car park takes forever, and I just wait for the rounds to come pouring down on us, but we make it across safely. As we climb out, Lottie is struggling to contain her glee.

Inside the building, we find a lot of machining tools. She grins, finding the oils used to lubricate the lathes and starts to pour it all over. We do this together on both floors, upper and lower, then she takes time to gently pile paper and debris up on the oil trails. The whole time, we can hear them talking above us, unaware of the clandestine sabotage going on right under their feet. Then we go to the little trash bin. “OK, you stay here, when you see me wave, you light them up, then you climb into that trash bin and hide.” she says pointing to one next to us. “I am going to get located on the second story of that house over there. When this building starts to burn, they will not be able to escape down the stairs, so they will have to use that fire escape right there, and I will be waiting to shoot them as they come down.” she says. I nod, it is a very simple yet, brilliant plan.

By her instruction, I sit just inside the window and wait for her to give me the signal. It takes a very long time, and during that wait, I hear them discussing having to come down to take a shit. I start to panic, fearing the plan is going wrong. Just as I am about to crawl into the bin, I see Lottie give me the signal, and I light the little Molotov she made me, and I throw it into the building. The fire catches immediately and I hurry to hide in the trash bin as instructed. What seems minutes, but probably seconds, later, I hear yelling, and guys scrambling. The Infected start their own noise, moaning and crying out, but then I hear Lottie's big Magnum firing. I hear some screams, and I hear some return fire but it is very short and then only a final shot from her Magnum. I continue to cower in the trash bin, afraid to even look out. Then I feel her thump the top a few times.

We loot the bodies. I end up with an AK-74 and three mags of ammo, a better backpack, some sunglasses, and a roll of toilet paper. That last bit is the thing I am most pleased with. Lottie keeps what she says is an SVD, two magazines and some loose rounds, and a grenade. She also gets a better pack, and we leave the bodies for the Infected. Cannibals do not deserve better than to be eaten by the Infected. If possible, we would feed them to the Infected while they are still alive. Such is our hatred for them. They also had some cooking supplies, but considering what they were cooking in them, we discard them.

After we fill our canteens up, we repack our stuff in the newer, larger, nicer packs. She mentions that she needed a larger pack for shopping. I don't question her, because I doubt I would understand her if I did. So we head out, and Lottie takes the lead, picking up a large metal bar. As we walk, we do actually stumble upon an Infected here and there, and Lottie just lets them come at her, then lifts and stabs them in the face with the end of the metal bar. They drop silently to the ground. I have to give her credit, she knows how to kill Infected.

She leads us along the rail lines, until we get to some cars. Most have been looted of food long ago, but she skips most of them, as if she is looking for a specific car. Sure enough, she finds what she is looking for, and pulls me over, filling my pack with handfuls of seed packets, some bags of fertilizer, and a few hand tools. Apparently this car was destined to go North, towards the farm region. My pack feels heavy on my shoulders, again. I had just gotten used to the feel of a light pack. Damn. She fills her similarly, and even strips a bunch of wire from a nearby building. I watch her thread her pack with it, then mine too. “We will be carrying a lot of weight from here. I hope you can handle it, but it is necessary.” she says. I assure her I can handle it, but I am not so confident.

Farther inland, in the city proper, we can hear a gun battle going on. It sounds like at least five people. We hear at least five different guns going off, and they are really going at it. That works to our advantage, as the Infected rush towards the sound, and leave us largely on our own. Other bandits also will rush towards the battle, hoping to score easy loot off the dead and dying. That also is fine with us. We have no interest in them, or their loot. We got what we needed, and left enough destruction in our wake. I wonder, briefly, if what we did at the Tek building touched this off. Perhaps rival groups blame each other for the deaths, and the destruction of the building. The smoke still fills the air, and the stench lingers.

 

To ensure we are not somehow included in the fighting, we make our way back down to the coast, using the thick smoke and the sounds of the gun fight, to provide concealment. We make it safely to the coast, and again, wall along the sea wall, until we leave the limits of Elektrozavodsk. Lottie got us through the city, safe and sound. The assault on the Tek building, and risking everything to load up from the train cars was dangerous but necessary. The ensuing fighting is a blessing, really. So we leave the city behind us. Lottie and I use the steel shafts to stab Infected as we stumble upon them, leaving a trail of dead. That is kind of something I have come to associate with Lottie. She does has a tendency to leave a trail of death and destruction in her wake. I find myself increasingly pleased to be on this side of her wrath. She is a powerful woman, capable of handling herself in a crazy world. I suppose you have to be a bit crazy to thrive in this land. The only thing between us and Skalisty now, is Kamyshovo, a small town. But that is another day.


	17. It Never Gets Easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End?

A Survivors Story Chapter 17  
Chapter 17  
It never gets easier

Our walk to Kamyshovo is cold, bitterly cold. When we finally do find bulky jackets, it warms quickly, bringing a fog in off the coast. As a little girl, I used to love the fog. I remember I would wander out into the backyard. If it was thick enough, I could even pretend the fence was not there, and it was all just endless miles of mysterious fog filled wonder. That memory is very much at odds with the way I feel about it now. Having experienced a nightmare in the fog up North, I am on pins and needles. Lottie also seems uneasy, since we hear the moans and cries of the Infected fairly close. In this fog, they do not see the coast, so they do not stay up away from us. Instead, we are making our way, terrified, through the fields between Elektrozavodsk and Kamyshovo.

I had hoped, foolishly I admit, that this last bit would be easy. I guess somehow I thought, we have come so far, been through so much, can't this little bit here, just be easy? No, of course not. This is Chenarus, and this is my luck. Nothing ever comes easy. Instead, Lottie and I are taking slow soft steps, going so slow, you could crawl faster. Had we been near a dwelling, we would have holed up inside for the time being, but this fog caught us in the open, in the middle of No and Where. If we simply sat down, the odds are, one of the Infected would stumble on top of us eventually, and that would tip off the same blind terrifying flight I experienced up North.

We sneak down to the waters edge and now and then, ahead or behind us, we hear one of the Infected accidentally stumble into the water and cry out as if in pain. Of course it is not in pain, however, it must register the water as potentially dangerous. If it were not so cold, Lottie and I would simply get in the water and try to make our way around, but we would surely get hypothermia. We elect to make our way as far as we can in this damn fog, slowly and silently. She leads, and I follow, wondering how much longer until my bladder just gives it up and I wet myself.

We get to the edge of Kamyshovo late morning, about morning tea, and Lottie directs us to a small single story house. The windows are all busted out and there are bullet marks on the walls and doors. It clearly has been used as shelter before, though not successfully it appears, as we step over dry blood smears. We see the remains of several people, I can't tell how many, piled behind the house, all eaten by the Infected. The smell is not so bad, they have been dead quite some time. Still, it is not pleasant. Even so, this is better than stumbling along with the Infected. We are not that well armed, not well enough to take on a field of Infected, coming from all directions.

We barricade the door and I immediately start cutting strips of cloth off the ruined mattresses and from sheets, that we can tape over the broken windows. It might keep some of the humid breeze out, but more importantly, eventually the fog will burn off, and the Infected will still be there. We do not wish to be seen. Both of us have been traveling for days since we left Elektrozavodsk, and we are exhausted. We ran out of water yesterday, and unless we find a well soon, we might have to rethink going much farther.

Had we not been delayed by the damn fog, it would not have been an issue, but it took us an extra couple days to get here, and we simply could not carry enough. So we both drop our packs, and Lottie starts to figure how to secure the doors enough that we might both be able to sleep. Meanwhile, I take an old sheet and try to make a dew catcher. I'm not sure how successful I will be, but if it can fill at least half a canteen, it'll be worth the effort.

We both lay down, her facing the front door, me facing the rear. Should either of us need to shoot, we keep our pistols near us, ready to go. I doze off first, but I know Lottie dozes off after, because we both sleep till late afternoon, near evening tea.

I roll over, feeling sore and stiff, but delighted to see the dew catcher gathered enough dirty water to fill two canteens. We will have to be careful drinking it, as the dew catcher was made with cloth that looked as if it had molded, so we decide to pour the water into a pot we find, and purify it with an iodine tablet. The plan goes well until we actually try it, and look at the dirty water in the dirty pot. In the end, we decide to dump it out and forget it. We will take our chances with finding a well or something. That really just makes this sad situation even more difficult. We both pour it out reluctantly. As I gather up my gear, Lottie checks outside for signs of Infected. She jerks back as one is staring her right in the face when she peeks out the window. It is standing right there, at the window, looking in at her. When she moves the sheet away, his face is right there, against the glass looking her right in the eyes. I have never seen Lottie afraid, but this really freaks her out. She yelps and stumbles back over some debris, falling on her back. The Infected moans and starts to beat on the window, breaking out what little glass is there, as well as the frame that held it. Others turn to see what this one is on about, and within minutes, the house is surrounded.

We can not put the cover back over the window, and other covers are now being knocked down as they start to gather around them and beat on the windows and doors. Lottie and I are unsure what to do, as she gets up. Then she grins and tells me to get my gear and follow her. The house is not large, so I give her a strange look, like, where the hell can I possibly follow her to? This is no time to question her though, the door in the rear is starting to buckle, and we have no way to secure it.

She has me help her slide a dresser over by a table, and we climb on top as she takes a piece of metal frame from the bed and starts to jab it into the ceiling, chipping of the plaster, then eventually the wood of the ceiling. The door is starting to crack as we break through, a small hole, but enough. She shoves our packs through, then grabs my arm and practically pushes me through the hole. It cuts my arms and tears my jacket, but I make it through. Lottie then jumps into the hole and I grab her arms, pulling her up as the back door splinters and the Infected burst into the house. She rolls to the other side and we lay on our backs on the roof, either side of the hole.

She puts her finger over her lips, telling me to be silent. I nod. The Infected know we are up here, but are incapable of getting to us. If we lay still and do not make noise, they might forget we are here and move off. I carefully pull some gauze from my pack and cover the small scrapes on my arms so the smell of blood does not keep them here. As we lay there, under the noon sun, we both snooze. We have nothing else to do until they leave.

As it starts to get late, they finally lose interest and begin to disperse. We do not dare to get down yet, all it would take is just one of those damn things to alert on us, and we would be done for. As a result, we lay up there until it grows dark, then we jump down behind the house and make a break for the coast. As we scramble, one does alert on us, then others. They start to come after us, and we have nowhere to go. We both hit the water and just start swimming to the small islands just off the coast. We simply have nowhere to go and we are too exhausted to run.

We swim a ways out, as the island is much farther than it seemed. We take breaks, floating or treading water for a bit, then swimming. We are both freezing and it is getting harder and harder to swim. I fear we will die out here, but the Infected line the coast, looking out at us relentlessly. We are like rats on a sinking ship. We can not go back, and we just have to force ourselves to keep going forward. Lottie talks to me the whole way, telling me about the fire we will build on the island, how warm we will be, and how we can eat some fish and have a good sleep. I listen to her as we swim, and in time, I feel the soft sand in the water and when I look up, I see we are only a little bit from the sandy shore.

Lottie was excellent about building her fire, and we strip naked and hang our clothing on sticks by the fire, to dry them. Once they are dry, we dress and then start taking more stuff out of our packs to dry. As I hang up our stuff, Lottie is taking a long stick and stabbing fish along the rocky reef. She is not nearly as good at it as she said she was, and we laugh about that. Still, it is enough to satisfy us to a degree, but we are still very thirsty. As I repack our packs, Lottie goes off with the canteens and comes back later with some water that smells as bad as it tastes, but it is purified by iodine, and has not been filtered by moldy sheets in a rusted pot. We hold our noses and sip the water. It is the most foul tasting putrid drink I have ever enjoyed.

The next morning we pick up our gear and walk East, along the coast. We wade across a narrow water way to an island just to the East, and cross it as well. From the Eastern coast of this island, we can see Skalisty. It is twice the distance we just swam, so we both agree, it is beyond swimming distance. It will take a boat to get there. Fortunately, we discover a very small boat overturned on the beach.

It takes all the strength we have, but we manage to turn it over, and drag it into the water. It leaks, so we won't be able to row it there as is. However, we have come too far to just give up, so I take off my jacket and tear a sleeve off, using a knife to jam the cloth into the long narrow slit. Then we put the boat back in the water. It only dribbles a tiny bit in at a time, and we figure we probably can use our hands to scoop the water out enough to get us to Skalisty. We throw our packs into the boat and Lottie starts singing “Row row row your boat” as she rows the damn boat to the island. I scoop the water out and keep and eye on our direction. We will get there by nightfall and as we get closer, I can see buildings and a massive antenna on top of a tall peak. Along the Western coast I think I can see the cove where the pier would be, according to her map. We will try to make it to the pier before we call it a trip.

It is with great joy that we finally feel the small boat thump into the soft sand. Lottie is so tired, she can barely drag herself out of the boat, and I help her, only going back for the packs after I tie the small boat up to the trunk of a big tree. We may need that boat again, I am sure of it, and we do not know if there are other boats here or not. So Lottie rests as I secure the boat, and then I join her, laying on the sand, and we both start to laugh. Neither of us know just why, but we laugh out loud with a joy neither of us can explain. Perhaps it is in having finally arrived, or it is in cheating death so many times, or perhaps it is just the time to celebrate. It really does not matter at the time. We laugh until we can't laugh anymore, then we lay there, enjoying our victory.

I really do not recall how long we lay there before we both accept that we must get up. We are dehydrated, we are exhausted, we are half starved, and we are finally home. It is not quite the way either of us imagined it, but nothing in this fucking place ever goes quite the way it should. I hate Chenarus with a hatred that I can not explain. I hate it with a passion that exceeds even my hatred for cannibals and the Infected. This place seems like it was created to kill us all. If there is a hell on Earth, this is it. Every single thing about this place has tested us, resisted us, challenged us, injured us. It has been us against the very countryside and only now can we finally claim we dealt it a mortal blow. It did everything it could to stop us, to kill us. We prevailed anyhow. We have every right to feel a bit cocky as we walk along the coast.

We arrive at the pier late morning, having walked through the remainder of the night. We see some houses just to the East of the pier, and we stagger to them, dropping our packs when we arrive. This is where we shall live, we decide. It is within minutes of the pier, it is protected from the weather by the hills around it. There is a nice beach and the pier for fishing, and there is already a large greenhouse that we will plant our seeds in, and grow food. Because there is a greenhouse, we know there must be a well. Sure enough, we find it on the side of the house. We both fill canteens and drink until we are satisfied.

We lay on the floor in the house, which is great. It has been spared the ravishes of the apocalypse, being so isolated. The windows are all intact, the beds were not left to the elements, and are still very usable and feel so soft that we have to restrain ourselves from just flopping down in them. Instead, we take the time to get fresh bedding from where it has been sitting in the shelves, and we make up fresh beds. We both wash ourselves using water from the well, and as Lottie gets a fire going in the fireplace, I discover the canned goods in the kitchen. I have a dinner prepared to go on the stove as a surprise, and we both eat more than our share.

By the time we both undress for bed, we are warm, stuffed, and it only takes us moments to fall asleep once we hit the mattresses. It is the first time I have slept without nightmares since this whole insanity started. I am sure it is only because I am so exhausted, but I think maybe it is also because this is the first time I have felt safe. Dodger's intelligence sources were right about Skalisty, it is uninhabited. It was nothing but a tourist trap prior to the outbreak, and when the outbreak hit Chenarus, the few employees that worked here abandoned the island to try to escape the Infected with their families, to U.N. Safe zones.

We are rather used to living here, after about a week. Lottie was able to find a fishing pole and she is better at catching fish. I have some seedlings started, and we are going easy on the canned goods. We laugh a lot, mostly at her silly songs and even worse jokes. We even manage to find some fresh clothing in some of the houses along the far Eastern side of the island, where tourists would buy jumpers, or sweatpants. Instead, we take them for ourselves, and feel so glad to put our tattered old things aside.

It is almost a month after we arrive, when we see the Greek trawler arrive. I am at first afraid, unsure if this is good or bad. We do not know who it is or if this is the end of our little paradise, until we see Banksy and Dodger waving from the deck. I am crying with joy, and Lottie is too. We are finally saved from Chenarus, from the Infected, from the nightmare. As we gather up what few possessions we intend to take with us, I find myself putting my old taped up boots, my diary, my little Makarov, and a sweatshirt with the Skalisty Island logo on it, in my bag. Everything else, I want to leave behind.

Banksy and Dodger help Lottie and I aboard, and as they show us where we will be staying for the trip home, they tell us about how the infection is burning itself out. Unknown to Lottie or I, being so cut off, the infection has already mutated again, and now as the Infected slowly rot and die.. again... the infection rate is plummeting into nearly nothing. As we sail home, we can hardly believe it. Like all outbreaks in history, it only took time, to get past. Humanity, life, finds a way. Just as Banksy, Dodger, Lottie, and all the others, have found a way to survive, humanity in general, found a way to go on.

Epilogue  
Love conquers all

It has been years since I have written anything in this diary. My son, Banks, named after his father, is 16. He is strong, and handsome, just as Banksy is. We are so proud of him. He is growing up in a whole different world than we knew. Things are much more simple now, here in Ithaca. Communities are smaller, closer. People came together, and those who were doing evil, the bandits, the cannibals, they eventually were held accountable, and in most cases, sentenced to life in the now empty prisons.

Crime is almost unheard of, though I am sure that will change as the population grows back from the brink of extinction. Technology is not as important, and we have learned to set aside our differences, and find common ground. We have to. There are so few of us, that there is no room for petty politics. Religions are less a factor, because none of them survived intact. In the end, everything became just a shadow of what it was. But I think it will be a good world we leave to this generation. We are teaching them to not make the mistakes we made. I hope it is enough. Looking at my son, I am sure it is enough. They have always said, the children are the future. When this all happened, we were the children. Many of us. We were young, and the future was in our hands, to rebuild society. We have done our best, and I guess time will judge us on our efforts. If they judge us by our children, I believe it will smile upon us.

 

We have earned the right to survive. We have been tested, and proven that we are strong, we are brave, we are determined. We are the last of the old ways, and the first of the new. We are the guardians of the past, keeping the history as best as we can, and we are the shepherds of the future. On our shoulders rests the possibilities of everything that ever could and ever will happen. We must leave this world a better place than when we arrived. Nature is a wicked teacher. The generations before us lost their way. They placed all manner of wickedness above goodness, in the name of greed, fear, and jealousy. We have taught our children that nothing is so important that it requires a boy or girl to fight, or to steal, or to hold resentment or hostility. We have given them all the lessons we had to learn the hard way, and they shine with the potential we never had. Was it all worth it? When I look at my son, I can honestly say, I would do it all again.


End file.
